White Interest - Number from beyond the grave (POI WC xover)
by Arches67
Summary: (White Collar - Person of Interest crossover) While investigating a murder, John stumbles upon a painting stolen many years ago. The inspector in charge of the case at that time happens to be a certain Peter Burke…
1. Prologue

Third installment of our "White Interest" universe. You will need to read the two previous stories for this to make sense…

Timing: the story begins at the end of season 6 for White Collar, end of season 4 for Person of Interest (Prologue is during mid-season 4 of POI).

Yellowstone69 & Arches67, together again, because after Neal's "death", we had to wrap up our universe.

My warmest thanks to Zendog for the beta reading. Any mistake left is mine. If some stuff sounds "different" please remember that English is not my first language.

* * *

 **Prologue**

 _Decommissioned subway station, November 2014_

John entered the old subway station turned headquarters and put a cup of tea by Finch's hand. He didn't get to do that very often lately, not as often as he did when they worked in the Library. Because of his work as a detective, he couldn't come in every morning anymore.

"Good morning, Finch."

"Mr. Reese," Finch answered, eyes fixed on the cup.

After a few seconds of silence, John wondered what was wrong.

"It's only a cup of the green Sencha tea, you know, the one you like, Harold. I haven't brought you any lately; it doesn't mean I've forgotten your tastes."

"That was how you had found out about Grace…" Finch whispered.

John raised an eyebrow in surprise. Finch wasn't one for cheery welcomes, but this sounded definitely maudlin.

"Something wrong?"

Finch remained silent for a few seconds, then turned to his employee.

"Do you ever wonder about our… enterprise?"

The ex-agent frowned. There was definitely something going on here. After all, Finch was the one who had started all this. He was the one who had come to get him to help with the numbers. The one who had realized that doing nothing was not an option. If anyone questioned the Machine and its purpose it was John, not its maker.

"We have a new number?" he asked wondering if the Machine had come up with a number that Finch maybe thought they shouldn't take care of.

"No." Finch sighed. "Rather news about a previous one."

He sounded defeated. He opened a page on his computer and turned the screen toward his employee. It was an obituary.

John felt his blood turn to ice. On the top corner of the page was a name all too familiar.

"Neal is dead?" he whispered not believing the words on the screen.

He fell into a chair staring at Finch with a distraught look, his eyes misting.

In his mind's eye he could still clearly see the young man's brilliant smile, his mischievous look, and clear eyes. He remembered the last time he had seen him, his face so full of love it almost hurt to watch.

"How…" he managed to utter.

"He was shot." Finch exhaled deeply. "I did some thorough research to check the information. After all, he has been known to fake his death before…"

"The shark mauling?" John remembered with a light smile. He had spent quite some time going over the information Finch had gathered on Neal during their first case. It had proved quite entertaining.

"Unfortunately, this is no… con. Agent Burke himself officially identified the body at the morgue."

"Peter must be devastated…" John whispered downcast.

"Why didn't the Machine warn us?" he carried on accusingly, then immediately regretted his outburst. He knew how the Machined worked. This wasn't Finch's fault.

"The Machine only sees premeditation, you know that. He got shot while running away." Finch's tone was calm, not bothered at all by the accusation. He totally understood how his colleague felt.

"He always hated guns," John said, his eyes lost.

"With good cause it would seem."

John closed his eyes. They had lost Shaw and now Neal was dead. Samaritan was getting more powerful and more dangerous every day. The list of their losses was beginning to be too long. His chest felt tight, he needed air. He couldn't breathe down here.

It all seemed so pointless. Maybe Finch was right. Why should they even bother…?

He rose on unsteady legs.

"Tell me we don't have a new number," he prayed.

"No," Finch answered softly.

John nodded and left their hiding place. He let his feet carry him around the city, not looking where he was going, lost in the memories of the young man. He finally ended up on the Upper East Side. He raised his head surprised at finding himself in front of June's mansion. He remembered the view from the terrace, Neal's expressive face as they talked during their first encounter...

He quickly climbed to the opposite building's roof, going back to the spot from where he had spied Neal the very first day, before he had been invited to have a drink.

The terrace was exactly the same. The loft was empty. Inside, white sheets were covering the furniture. An unfinished canvas was testimony to the talent of the last inhabitant of the place. The painting was still on the easel, as if waiting for the final strokes of a brush. No one had seemed brave enough to put it away…

"Bye Neal. Enjoy your freedom," John whispered, his throat tight.

* * *

 _TBC…_

* * *

AN/ We'll let you dry your tears, and be right back …


	2. Day 1

_Day 1 - Hell's Kitchen,_ _New Your,_ _fifteen months later_

When he reached the third floor, John pulled his gun and put his back to the wall. In front of him, Lionel Fusco was mirroring the gesture, body against the opposite wall.

Shots had been reported by neighbors and being the closest police unit available, they had entered the building. As homicide detectives, they were usually called after the body was found. They weren't supposed to answer the call from central, but they were in the area, and John always listened to the alerts.

Now, only silence reigned. There was only one door on the landing. The two officers approached carefully.

The door was ajar and, and exchanging a glance, they moved to either side of it.

Pointing his gun inside, John had a first look. A body was lying on the floor. If the blood around was any clue, they were too late. Only the coroner would be needed anytime soon.

Carefully avoiding the body and blood, the two men checked the apartment. Having made sure they were alone with their victim, they put their guns away.

"Guess the neighbors were right, it was a gun shot," Fusco commented rather unnecessarily. He looked at the body and stepped back with a wince when he saw the gaping hole in the victim's head.

John was checking the room. A pretty standard apartment in New York. The front door hadn't been broken and there were no signs of a fight.

"I'll call it in; ask for a team," Fusco said fingers on his phone. He groaned as he looked at the screen. "Weird, no service." He looked at John. "Can I leave you alone?"

"I don't think he'll hurt me."

"I'm actually more worried the other way around," Lionel grumbled.

John raised an eyebrow.

"Don't touch him," Fusco warned.

"Lionel! I may not have been a detective for a long time, but I do know how to act at a crime scene."

"You know how to create them for sure…" Lionel mumbled as he left the room.

John hid a light grin as he watched him leave. He moved closer to the body in order to get a closer look. The age of the dead man was noteworthy. He was at least 70. He had encountered quite a few corpses in his life, but old men with a bullet through their head were not that common. What had led to such a situation? Hell's Kitchen had been dangerous enough in the past, but in the last decade the area had changed and it was now a nice place to live.

Raising his head, he started to thoroughly check the apartment. A standard living room, nothing fancy. Suddenly he saw a tiny square box, on the wall, by the curtain. He was immediately intrigued and he grabbed a chair to reach it.

He didn't need to check twice to know what it was. He had set up dozens of them during his past with the CIA. A communication scrambler, to protect from potential bugs. It explained why Fusco's phone couldn't get service.

Having made that discovery, John started to look around with different eyes. You didn't find that kind of equipment in any random house.

Letting his experience guide him, he wasn't long in finding new surprises. First a safe, carefully hidden behind the TV screen on the wall. A small lock in the column hiding the cables allowed the screen to turn and thus display the safe.

John didn't bother with it for the moment. He knew he could probably open it before the experts arrived, but he didn't want to attract too much attention. Cracking a safe with no special tools wasn't part of the standard "qualifications" expected from a homicide detective.

The bedroom, and its closet, revealed a hidden compartment and an astounding discovery: at least five hundred thousand dollars.

He went back to the main room and moved to the kitchen, deep in thought.

A scrambler, a safe, half a billion dollars in cash, in a plain apartment in Hell's Kitchen… _Who the hell_ _were_ _you old man?_

The kitchen didn't reveal anything new. Standing in the middle of the living room, he pivoted slowly. Something was wrong but he couldn't pinpoint what exactly. He thought back to his arrival with Fusco. There was only a door on the wall. It was suddenly so obvious that he couldn't figure why he hadn't noticed it before. The rooms he had inspected didn't account for the floor surface that should be there.

The room and bathroom had windows towards the street, nothing on that side. If there was a hidden room, it had to be on the other side of the kitchen.

He started checking every nook and cranny. The kitchen didn't reveal anything significant, except that their victim had a pretty healthy diet. Of course, no diet saved you from lead poisoning, caliber 42. He pushed open the door to the pantry. Obviously not used, the shelves were all empty. Letting his hands run over the surfaces, he finally found what he was looking for. A small amount of pressure and a door was revealed.

Pushing it open, John easily found a light switch. Pulling his gun, he moved down the small corridor. Another switch illuminated the "missing" room. John was now in an artist workshop. Easels, blank canvasses, unfinished sculptures… The atelier was well furnished, but the lengths the owner had gone to hide its existence didn't bode well for the honesty of the work done there. His experience gave John all the clues he needed: he and Fusco had just stumbled upon a forger hideout. He really wanted to know who the man lying on the carpet was.

He was about to leave the room, when a big crate made him stop. He watched it for a few seconds. It had locks on the sides. The main panel seemed to be designed to be opened as a door. John pulled new gloves from his pocket and opened the locks.

Opening the panel, he discovered the contents: a painting. He pulled on the protective paper.

A boat on a stormy sea. Dark colors. Oil on canvas, a frame of precious wood. Not exactly what he would put up above his mantel piece… if he had had a mantel piece.

Acting on instinct, nobody protected a valueless painting this carefully, he pulled his phone out and snapped a picture. He had disconnected the scrambler earlier, it only took a second sending the picture to Finch. Poor Fusco who had needed to go down the three floors to make his call. He was probably complaining on the way back up.

John was hoping the picture would attract Finch's interest. His "boss" loved art. This might entertain him for a while. Since the Machine had been reduced to a simple briefcase, their life had been seriously upset.

They had almost miraculously escaped the shooting after Root had managed to save the Machine's DNA; after that, they had taken back their covers almost industriously. Finch didn't miss a single class and John was the perfect employee. Everything was just a front. As soon as he left the university, Finch went back to their subway station to work on his programs. Along with Root, they worked on the codes, using whatever pieces of material they could get their hands on. But giving Finch's child a new life was turning out to be very difficult. He was growing more and more frustrated at not being able to move on more quickly.

In the beginning, John had been with them. Then the less and less discreet comments about his presence bothering the two geniuses had him convinced to leave them alone. He still dropped by frequently but never stayed around for long. With nothing else to do, he dedicated himself to his job as a detective. The Machine wasn't functional, but Finch was still the best around computers. Getting information to help him on his cases was not a problem. Fusco and he were turning out to be the best team of the precinct.

He had barely sent the picture when his phone buzzed.

"Is it real?" Finch didn't bother with pleasantries.

"It's a painting," John answered.

"An original?" the man insisted.

John moved his hand, watching his phone as if it would allow him to see his friend.

"Finch, your confidence in me is touching, but I'm totally incapable of telling the difference between a copy and an original!"

He couldn't understand the grumbled answer from his boss. Ex-boss… with no Machine, no numbers; with no access to Finch's bank accounts, no salary…

"Send me more pictures. Are there other paintings?"

"No, only this one. There are a few sculptures, unfinished, all the same…"

"Try to get me clear shots."

"Finch, what's going on?"

"I want to know if that painting is a copy or the original. Send me a clear shot of the signature."

John looked at the painting and felt his heart contract. He had known a man who would have been able to tell, with a single glance, and with no doubt whatsoever. He couldn't help a wince. Such a waste that someone like Neal Caffrey had to die.

Fusco showed up as John was busy taking more pictures. The detective entered the room, noticing his partner's discoveries.

"Well, you have been busy. A safe, a hidden room, a painting…" he commented slightly irritated. "Is that it? You know who did it too?"

He came by John's side and studied the painting. "Not exactly my style, but it would look fine in your HQ…" he teased. "Pretty sure Glasses would like it."

Ignoring Fusco's comments, John was waiting for Finch to come back to him.

"Mr. Reese, of course just a few pictures are hardly evidence, but I think your crime scene has just taken on a new dimension…"

 _TBC…_

* * *

AN/ Neal is dead. John works with Fusco on a homicide. You're starting to wonder how this is a crossover, right? Just have faith in us…


	3. Day 2

Thank you for your reviews.

Wondering what's going on at White Collars? Let's find out.

* * *

 _Day 2 - New York, White Collar offices,_ _10:00 am_

Peter Burke, ASAC of the White Collar team in New York, was preparing the briefing meeting. The previous day, two detectives from homicide had found a painting stolen in 1990 that had not been seen since.

The discovery had been quite the bomb. The theft at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum was part of the "legends": "the biggest heists of all times, "the crime never solved". The newspapers had had a field day with that one. As had the FBI. And suddenly, one of the paintings had turned up in the pantry of an apartment in Hell's Kitchen.

The NYPD was on the front line since there was a body involved, found by its detectives, but for once everybody had agreed that this was too big to play solo. After 25 years, they were presented with a new opportunity to find the paintings and the thieves.

Peter cleared his throat. Of course, solving such a case would be the pinnacle of his career, but he was more excited by the actual chase than the medals to come.

He had always loved treasure hunts. That was probably where his calling came from. If he had been more interested by history than figures, he might have been an archaeologist instead of an agent with the FBI.

He looked at the picture of the painting once more; a painting that was now under heavy guard.

He could probably describe it with his eyes closed. 25 years earlier, when the theft had happened, he had been part of the team in charge of the case. Along with his mentor, Philip Kramer. He hadn't thought about the man for a long time; their last conversation had been… loud. Still, 25 years ago, after the case had been quietly sidelined (more urgent matters taking precedence) Peter had kept working on it.

With the same focus that had him keep track on the file of a certain conman…

He couldn't help a groan. _Neal_ …

He had never thought about asking him to have a look at the file. Yet, if anyone could have shed some light on that theft, it was Neal.

His former CI, shot in front of him; the man whose body he had officially identified at the morgue, but who wasn't actually all that dead… A few weeks ago, after meeting Mozzie, a totally different treasure hunt had led him to a container.

The stuff inside proved that Neal had set up the ultimate con, the high light of his career. The last bow of the genius before his disappearance.

What he still couldn't understand was Mozzie's ignorance of the fact. He was Neal's best friend, yet he didn't know he was alive. He didn't doubt Mozzie's talents for obfuscation, but it was obvious he was convinced his friend was dead. Some looks didn't lie. And the obvious pleasure he took in telling baby Neal the stories of his "uncle" showed he wanted to keep him alive at least in their minds.

Since Peter had found out, he visited container quite often. He was in total denial of the main reason for his visits; that he hoped to meet Neal there one day. He had not told Elizabeth yet, completely unsure as to how to tell her.

Shaking his head at his musings, he checked the file he had been sent about the two detectives assigned to the case. John Riley and Lionel Fusco had found the body and the painting. They would be involved in the whole process. Good officers, with a closing rate ranking far above average.

Too bad he couldn't count on Jones and Diana. They would have been perfect on this case, but they were on holidays. Too bad. It would have been nice to have them on the team that would finally crack the heist of the Stewart Gardner Museum.

He raised his head to check the meeting room. Apparently everybody had arrived. He picked up the file and left his office.

The agents and detectives turned towards him and everybody was introduced.

Peter felt his blood turn to ice when one of the detectives held in hand in greeting.

"Detective Riley, homicide," John introduced himself with a polite smile, without a hint that both men knew each other.

Peter was having a little bit more trouble keeping the façade alive. His brain was turning at a hundred miles an hour and his heart rate had spiked.

John, the man that had saved Neal's life twice.

Neal, whom he had been thinking about a few seconds ago.

He felt like he was being shaken by an earthquake… magnitude 28. First Neal's container, then the painting, now John… Seeing him now was raising far too many questions. He tried to cover his surprise by shaking hands.

"Detective Riley," he responded with a professional smile. "You're the one who found the painting," he exclaimed, hoping his reaction would be chalked to the surprise of meeting the man responsible for the reopening of a 25 years old file.

"It just happened to be at our crime scene," John explained not wanting to draw too much attention.

The last greetings were exchanged and everybody sat around the meeting table. Peter remained standing.

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. I know you have been already briefed by your own directors, but I'll repeat it again. This is a joint case. We have a common interest in solving it and it has enough mysteries to keep everyone busy without interfering with the other parties. The NYPD will be in charge of the homicide, White Collar will focus on the painting. Still we will only achieve a result if we work together. I am counting on all of you to honor our city and justice."

He was maybe going a bit overboard, Peter thought, letting the words sink. But if his long experience had taught him something, it was to make things clear from the very beginning if he wanted the different services to work in harmony. He had been given the best agents; egos were bound to enter the equation. But only one thing mattered to him: to solve the case and find the other missing paintings.

"I'll start with a question that's one of the classics at the FBI academy: 'what is the biggest theft of paintings of the past century'?"

As expected, no one answered. Everybody seemed suddenly very busy checking the file they had been given.

He sighed. Not that he had expected an answer. The question wasn't even really a "classic" either. It was just one of those old files no one liked to talk about, because no one liked failure. And it was a particularly soft spot for him; but of course he was the one who hadn't solved the case 25 years ago.

In the silence he saw an image from the past - Neal's silhouette and his radiant smile. He was sitting, chair pushed back on its hind legs; throwing his rubber ball in the air, telling the story of the theft as if he had written the report himself. In his smile, Peter could see a touch of jealousy at not having been the one to commit it, and an obvious admiration of the culprits. Then Neal let the chair settle back and he put the ball on the table. He looked at Peter with his clear eyes, slightly sad as if apologizing for not being really there. And the ghost vanished…

Blinking to make the image disappear, Peter cleared his throat. And cleared it again. Neal had been "dead" for fifteen months, yet he was still fully alive in his memories. He had felt his presence around so many times, even "seen" his old partner a number of times. This sudden appearance was extreme, but considering the situation it wasn't surprising his brain was playing tricks on him. It was a lot to take in, Neal actually being alive. It made it even harder for him not to want the younger man to be involved…and his brain had reacted accordingly. He picked up his file to give himself some confidence, and carried on.

"Yesterday, detectives Riley and Fusco found in the back room of their victim's apartment, a painting from the robbery at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston in 1990. The paintings have never surfaced again, the thieves have never been found. I'll let you study the details of the file, just keep in mind the total value of the theft is estimated at half a billion dollars."

Peter picked up the remote and started showing pictures on the screen; the stolen paintings, the circumstances of the theft, the information gathered back then; then the elements of the new case related to the reappearance of Rembrandt's "The Storm on the Sea of Galileo".

He had shown the last file when the door to the meeting room opened. Everybody turned, surprised at the intrusion and Peter went pale.

"What agent Burke is forgetting to mention, ladies and gentlemen, is that the officers in charge of the case in 1990 were none other than Kramer and Burke." He gave Peter a conspiratorial smile. "Being modest, Peter?"

"Agent Philip Kramer, from White Collars in Washington." Peter introduced him politely, then carried on. "I wouldn't call it modesty. After all, we never solved the case, did we, Philip?"

John frowned at the encounter. Despite the smiles, he could feel the tension. Peter seemed rattled at seeing Kramer, as if he was the last person he wanted to meet. He'd need to check their common past. His instinct was screaming at him that these two weren't friends.

Sitting on one of the empty chairs, Kramer waved his hand at Peter inviting him to resume his presentation.

* * *

 _Day 2 - FBI, White Collar offices meeting room, 12:30 pm_

The agents and detectives rose from their chairs and left the room in groups as the meeting ended. Peter was relieved to see Kramer in deep discussion with another agent.

"Detective Riley?" Peter called.

John turned slowly.

"A word in private, please?" the FBI agent asked.

Reese nodded and followed in silence. He had known that Burke would want to see him privately; the agent's reaction when he had entered the room had had him worry for a minute. But Burke had perfectly controlled his surprise and conducted the meeting amazingly professionally.

Peter invited him in his office and leaned against the door he had just closed. John raised a surprised eyebrow. The agent didn't intend to have him arrested? Peter winced as he seemed to realize what he had just done, almost instinctively.

The silence stretched for a few seconds, both men wondering how to start the conversation.

"You have a most unusual career path," Peter started.

How could "mystery man", as he had finally dubbed him, be a part of the NYPD? His shield was authentic and his presence with other detectives only proved it. He couldn't begin to figure it out.

"Indeed," John answered, cryptic.

Peter almost groaned in frustration, then sighed remembering the other times he had wanted to strangle another person in this same office. It suddenly seemed so long ago.

"I heard about Neal. I am sorry," John said, in a sincere tone, sadness obvious in his eyes.

A flash of guilt passed over Peter's face. It was quickly replaced by something more difficult to pinpoint.

 _He's hiding something_. The thought came so fast that John couldn't ignore it. And he wouldn't. His past had taught him the hard way to never underestimate this kind of gut feeling.

"Thank you."

"What happened?" John asked almost hesitantly, wondering if the agent would tell him the truth. The information Finch had gathered about Neal's death were flimsy. The police are gone to great deals to hide whatever operation Neal was involved in.

Peter hesitated for a few second then realized there was no harm in telling John. The man had other far more sensitive information in his hands, than a bust by the FBI to fall a notorious gang.

Keeping for himself some details he wasn't ready to share, Peter told him how Neal had infiltrated the Pink Panthers to help the FBI arrest them. The tragic death of the CI hadn't been part of the plan…

"Even after seeing his body in the morgue, I couldn't believe it. I guess I was still expecting to see him sit up and laugh at my surprise." He swallowed. "It only really became real when they gave me his anklet and stuff."

Peter frowned, as if surprised by his own feelings. He straightened, willing the sadness away. John kept his eyes on him, trying to understand the agent. Remembering the death of Neal had obviously distressed the agent, but at the same time he seemed to reproach himself for his feelings. As if they weren't justified.

He had witnessed how close the two men were. Neal had always been clear about that. There was nothing surprising or shameful for Peter at being hit that strongly by his friend's death. John decided to keep an eye on the agent. He would bet one of his favorite guns Peter was hiding something.

"Do you have any news of his friend Mozzie?" John asked curious.

Peter smiled fondly.

"Yes. I met him a few months ago. We hadn't seen each other since Neal's… disappearance." His voice wavered slightly. "He's coming to visit fairly often. My son seems fascinated by his voice and stories."

"Cops and robbers stories probably have a very different color with him," John commented amused. He could totally picture Mozzie sitting comfortably and telling the baby about Neal's best cons.

"Mozzie is harmless. He lives in world of his own, but he wouldn't hurt a soul."

Peter started laughing. "If he heard me now!" He shook his head. "Neal had a gift to make the most unbelievable happen."

"One of a kind, indeed. His death is quite the loss."

Again, a sort of flash crossed Peter's eyes. John was going to call Finch as soon as he got out of the building. He needed information on the FBI agent.

* * *

 _Day 2 - FBI, White Collar offices, 1:00 pm_

Peter waved John goodbye as the doors of the lift closed. He pushed the door to the offices. Kramer was waiting on the upper level. Trying to get rid of his annoyance, Peter convinced himself that Philip would be an asset. He knew that file as well as he did.

"Philip! So, Washington got so boring you have to find new cases in New York?" he teased.

"Figured you needed the big guns to help you guys," Kramer answered in the same tone.

Showing the way, Peter led him to his office.

"I've got to admit I really didn't expect to see you," Peter confessed. "You keep checking on my case files?"

"I do like to tell people that I'm the one who trained you," Kramer admitted. Peter Burke was an unescapable figure in the FBI. Letting others know that you had been one of his tutors never hurt.

"I know finding the painting has been quite the news; but I never thought Washington would send their director."

"Are you kidding? When I saw the news, I jumped in the first plane. Peter that case kept us awake for months. Don't tell me that you had finally stopped your research!"

"You knew I kept investigating during my free time?"

"Of course. I admired your determination. I found it quite useless honestly, but as it didn't interfere with your work, I never said anything."

"Your expertise will really be helpful."

"Both our expertise, Peter. This robbery was really a mystery."

"You can say that again. I remember the clues vanished as fast as they appeared. I remember I even started thinking somebody in the service was leaking information."

"Really?" Kramer asked sitting up in surprise.

"Probably my frustration speaking. But thinking we had a mole kind of helped with swallowing the failure," Peter confessed with a smile.

A tense silence fell on the room.

"Are we going to talk about it or do we keep ignoring the elephant in the room?" Kramer finally asked in a cold voice.

Peter winced but didn't answer.

"I learned about Neal. I'm sorry."

"Really?" Peter asked much more dryly than he intended.

Kramer sighed.

"Peter, I know you hold me responsible for him running away, but I did not put him in a plane to Cape Verde. He made that choice on his own."

"Running was Neal's particular gift. He abhorred violence. Disappearing was always his method of defense. Not a chance he would have reacted differently at that time."

"He was a prisoner of the State. He didn't have a choice there," Kramer shot back.

"Philip, that was four years ago. It really doesn't matter anymore…" Peter concluded in a low voice.

"Right," Kramer answered. He resumed in a softer voice. "Peter, I am sorry. Not so much for Neal, but for you. I know how much you liked him, how close you were. Losing someone is always hard, and I am sorry you had to go through that pain."

Peter nodded. "Thank you."

"So, you have a son? When am I meeting him?"

Thinking about his baby immediately brought a real smile to Peter's face; their conversation turned more personal.

* * *

 _Day 2 - 1 Police Plaza, in front of the FBI, 1:00 pm_

As soon as he left the FBI building, John reached for his ear.

"Finch, I need you to get me information on agent Philip Kramer from the FBI. He and Burke used to work together in the past. Their relationship seems unusually tense. I think there is some heavy history between the two of them."

"Jealousy at the pupil surpassing the teacher?" Finch suggested.

"No doubt about it, but there is more. I can't put my finger on it, but his intervention at the briefing was quite unexpected."

"I'll see what I can find and let you know. Anything else?"

"If you could find who robbed the museum in 1990…" John asked with a small smile.

"I'll do my best," Finch answered deadpan, hiding his own smile.

John located Fusco, busy on the phone a few feet away. Both men had been working for the NYPD for some time now. Their "past" didn't usually intrude in their day to day work. But having the extra eyes of the FBI upon them would probably mean they would need to be more careful.

As for Burke, he apparently seemed okay about not asking questions. Of course, Neal being dead meant their relationship was different. Their "common past" didn't exist anymore, revealing facts about it wouldn't help anything. Of course, Burke was bound to try and find more about him. He had had some weird reactions during their meeting; John was going to keep a close eye on him. As a matter of fact, as they would be working together, it should not prove that difficult.

He caught Fusco's attention and went toward their car. Time to go to the precinct and work on their deceased body.

* * *

 _Day 2 - FBI, Peter Burke's office, 7:30 pm_

Peter signed the last document and closed the signature book his secretary had left on his desk. He put the pen down and cast a glance to the open space below. Most employees had left for the evening. He winced when he saw the time.

He dialed a number.

"El, hon. I'm sorry, I didn't see the time," he apologized.

"Is everything alright, Peter?" Elizabeth asked in a worried tone.

The agent let out a little laugh. "You didn't tell me you had taken mind reading classes…"

The cheerful laugh of his wife was more effective on his frayed nerves than all the holidays in the world.

"I have a Master of Sciences of Peter, honey. Your case isn't going well?"

"Kramer showed up," he blurted out before he had time to think if he should tell her about it.

"Oh…" said the sad voice. Just an exclamation but it expressed a lot about what that visit dredged up.

Peter cleared his throat. "El, I still need to go check something, but I won't be long. Is Neal in bed already?"

"No, not yet. He just had dinner. You know he sleeps better when you tuck him in."

Peter smiled fondly. Their baby boy had understood from his very first day at home that Elizabeth felt better when Peter was back home for the evening. Night time had become an essential part of their routine. His presence on the field wasn't required that often anymore; he therefore tried to be back in time to put Neal to bed, even if it meant having to work from home after dinner more often than not.

"I'll be back soon. Love you."

"Love you."

Two words so full of meaning; she knew how he felt, why he needed to be alone for a moment; she would be there when he wanted to talk about it, but wouldn't pry before. What did he do to deserve such a wonderful wife?

Once again he felt bad for not telling her about Neal. And the more the time went by, the more difficult it was. He could totally see her betrayed face, overwhelmed by sadness. He couldn't fathom if keeping the secret was more difficult than telling her.

He put his jacket on and left the office. He didn't even bother conjuring a reason why he was going straight to Neal's container. After finding it, he had come back often. It had become "his" place, somewhere he could think, muse, meditate... Where he could be himself and let the confusing joy/frustration bubble grow until it made him cry. Some days he was so angry that he wished he could get his hands on Neal just to kill him; others he hoped Neal would come back to get something, and he'd be there. He would give anything to see him again, only once…

Neal's treasure. The ultimate proof that he was indeed a thief. The reality of his difference hidden under one roof. Deep inside, Peter had known when they had loaded Keller's truck that there were pieces missing. The truck was much smaller than the warehouse that had blown up. But, back then, the only important thing was to save Elizabeth, nothing else mattered. Neal and Mozzie weren't talking to each other those days. Mozzie had probably taken his share just in case. The art found after Keller had been arrested was only part of what had been recovered from the U-boat.

Lost in his thoughts, he found himself in front on the container before knowing it. The key on his keychain was plain, the kind no one would give a second glance to. Yet the lock opened the way to an incredible world. He let himself in, turned the light on, then sat on the armchair he had put in the middle of the space. A vintage armchair. He had no idea what period it dated, but chances were an antiques dealer would have a fit at seeing it used as a simple chair.

He sighed deeply and let his mind wander; enjoying the guilty pleasure of thinking back to the moments he and Neal had shared during their five years together.

* * *

 _Day 2 - Neal's container, 7:50 pm_

In the shadows outside, John was watching the ray of light underneath the door. What was the FBI agent doing in a container at this time of the day? The Burkes had a house, complete with cellar and basement, room enough to store their belongings. Why did they need a container? He didn't know the agent that well, but he hadn't tagged him as someone deeply attached to objects.

Half an hour later, Peter came out, locked the door and left in his car, probably finally going home. Making sure he was alone, John approached the container. Opening the lock was child's play and he let himself in. He closed the door and slid his hand on the wall looking for the switch.

John had always thought that the expression "jaw dropping" was farfetched, a figure of speech. Yet, for the first time in his life he actually felt his mouth fall open. The container was full of art. He went to the back wall and looked at the pictures hung there.

He remained motionless as he stared at the contents of the container. As in slow motion, his brain reached the inevitable conclusion. This was Neal's cache. Even more unbelievable, the former CI was alive. Casting a glance around, John went to sit in the armchair in the middle of the room. His legs felt as if they had been sawn off.

His life as a spy had confronted him with quite a few surprises and unexpected situations, but this one ranked very high on the list. He exhaled, willing away the adrenaline rush that had him almost shaking. The news was even more shattering than Finch telling him Neal was dead some fifteen months earlier.

He himself was officially dead, so he wasn't judging Neal, but the news was unexpected. He watched the container and the different art gathered here. He could easily picture Neal's smile, proud of his last biggest con.

The container also explained Peter's attitude. The agent was in an impossible position, overjoyed at knowing his friend was alive, ruled by his sense of duty regarding his CI's disappearance. Casting a last glance at the room, he let himself out and relocked the door. Checking the surroundings, he noticed the surveillance camera.

"Finch," he called.

"Yes, Mr. Reese?"

"Can you access the camera facing the container I'm in front of?"

The familiar click of the keyboard was the only answer. After a few seconds, Finch informed him. "I started a recording. Did you find pertinent information on the case?"

John let a little laugh escape. "Sort of."

"Mr. Reese ?"

"Remember I told you I thought agent Burke was acting a bit out of character? I followed him. I've got to admit, I wasn't expecting this…"

"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself John," Finch shot back, not used to his employee being that mysterious. "If you'd care to enlighten me…"

"Are you seated?"

"Mr. Reese, please!"

"Neal Caffrey is alive."

The silence stretched for a long moment.

"Finch, you're still there?" John asked, suddenly worried. Finch was under a lot of stress trying to rebuild the Machine, maybe this was too much.

"You do have a way with news, Mr. Reese." He sighed. "Still, we can hardly judge him."

"I'm coming. Can't wait to tell you how he managed it. He is incredible…"

"I have no doubts about that."

* * *

 _Meanwhile, in Europe…_

* * *

 _TBC_ …

* * *

AN/ Evil laugh. Yes, that is a mean cliffhanger…

Also, if you wonder, the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist is an actual fact. The FBI is still offering a bounty for any information on the missing art.


	4. Day 2 too

_Day 2, Apartment in Paris, 8:00 am, local time_

Sitting in his tiny balcony, Neal was sipping his coffee admiring the view. A few clouds drifted in the sky casting soft shadows over the river. At the tip of the island, the French Miss Liberty was keeping guard over the Island du Cygne.

When he had started his hunt for a place to live, Neal had a few unescapable criteria; one of them was a clear view. Real estate prices in Paris were on par with those of New York, but he wouldn't live in an apartment whose windows faced the neighbors' ones.

When he had seen this place, a single glance at the balcony had been enough to make his decision. The irony of seeing the Statue of Liberty from his window hadn't escaped him. Often he thought about the view from his loft in New York. Truth be told, both were pretty amazing.

He loved New York; he always would. His heart belonged to the city and the idea that he would never step foot on it again chilled him to the bone. But living in Paris, for an artist like him, was like being in a dream. He had gone to all the museums, many, many times, had literally haunted the halls of the Louvre. One evening, after a visit to the Musée d'Orsay, he had stopped on the way back home to buy brushes, pigments, a canvas. He had spent the night painting, drugged by happiness, like a junkie who had been given a dose after too long.

Since that night, he had purchased more material and the paintings were starting to pile up. Now and then, he dropped a bunch of them in a small art gallery that sold them quite easily. Whatever Peter might have said, he could live honestly by his art.

 _Peter_ … whose face was currently displayed on his Ipad.

In the end, leaving New York and the FBI had turned out to be the only way out. Negotiating his freedom as reward for bringing down the Pink Panthers had made him realize he would never be able to leave that life behind him. Only death could change things.

Slowly the idea had bloomed. The danger represented by the Pink Panthers gang had only spurred it further. He would leave everyone, everything, his world, his whole life. From there, it was only about logistics. In many ways it was not even the most complicated con he had to set up.

He had just underestimated one aspect; two if he was being honest with himself.

The first were the side effects of puffer fish poisoning. Being injected with the poison to slow his heart until he was declared dead had worked perfectly well. Not that he remembered anything about it. Having to trust somebody with that had been almost more frightening than feeling the serum enter his arm. What he hadn't anticipated was the time it would take his body to get rid of the poison. When he was expecting it the least, his body would betray him, muscles paralyzed by the leftovers of the serum. Once, he had felt his heart slow down so much that he had feared his last hour had come. He was saved by an instinctual panic as fear released such a burst of adrenaline that his heart actually picked up again. Those symptoms were now history, but he still felt weak when he thought about it.

The other aspect was how badly he had misjudged missing New York. Who was he kidding? If he had to put what he missed the most into one word it would only take five letters, a single name. Peter.

Neal had never really understood how the FBI agent had been able to get into his life that deeply, how he had trusted him, how he had been ready to sacrifice his own life. Losing Mozzie had been like turning a page of his life. His young, carefree days. Mozzie had been his teacher, the one who had seen the rough diamond and turned it to all its splendor. The "Mozzie years" were fun, light, happy, fluffy like a fruity champagne.

As for Peter… Peter had opened the door to a world where human beings were not just marks, suckers and patsies, but full blooded beings ready to give you their hearts without asking for anything in exchange. Years where life had taken a new meaning, where planting roots meant something and had an appeal like nothing else. Peter was like an old cognac, whose taste lingered long on the tongue.

A day didn't go by without thinking about him. Suddenly surprising himself by turning his head to point something out to him, only to find him absent.

After a few months of settling himself into his apartment; when his life had stopped being a whirlwind of museums, parties and wine bottles; he had finally admitted that he would never be able to totally turn his back on his previous life. He had contacted a private investigator through a secure line and had him send pictures on a regular basis.

That was how he had witnessed Elizabeth coming out of the hospital with the baby, Peter and El pushing the stroller down Central Park pathways, Peter's grumpy face at a crime scene. The last pictures, received this morning, showed Peter leaving his house, giving a soft kiss to his wife, his hand on the baby's head.

If anyone had told him Peter would give his name to his son, Neal would have burst out laughing. He wasn't that vain though. He knew the real reason the baby had his name was because he was dead. Peter would have never given him such a powerful blackmailing tool.

He would give his right arm to see Peter, just for a few minutes. But he was dead, and dead people didn't get second chances.

He slid his finger over the screen and brought up the New York Times web edition. Every morning, while eating a fresh croissant, he read the news from the US.

An article caught his attention. Just a snippet from the previous evening.

 _'Rembrandt's "Storm on the Sea of Galileo" found 25 years after being stolen at the Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston.'_

Now, that was going to get the FBI running! The headline briefly explained how the painting had been found on a crime scene and promised more news on the complete article the following day. Neal groaned. Because of the time difference he'd need to wait several hours before he had more information.

He started surfing the web to research the robbery. The case had baffled the police back then; it had never been solved. No one had ever seen the painting again. He enjoyed himself reading the stories on the web, not bothering to hide his admiration for such a heist, almost feeling jealous. He couldn't wait to see how the police would tackle the case this time.

* * *

Neal opened the door and threw the keys on the table, closing the door with his foot. He was back much later than expected. He didn't bother removing his jacket, instead reaching his Ipad.

The reappearance of the painting was on the front page of the New York Times.

 _'The robbery of the century about to be solved._

 _25 years after the facts, will the FBI solve the mystery of the theft at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum?'_

The article mentioned the press conference that had been held after the joint meeting with the FBI and the NYPD. Apparently, both agencies were working closely together to solve the case. A short paragraph caught Neal's attention.

 _'Peter Burke, current ASAC of the FBI's White Collar in New York, in charge of the case, travels back in time. 25 years ago, when he was just a rookie agent, Peter Burke worked on the theft of the paintings. No one knows all the intricacies of this file better than him. Let's hope this time the ending will be a happy one.'_

Neal put the Ipad back on the table when he realized his hands were shaking. He exhaled softly and sat down, trying to calm the reaction of his body.

He wasn't the superstitious kind, but sometimes the stuff life threw at you made you wonder. If Neal had been in New York, there was no doubt Peter would have him chained to a desk to solve this case. If anyone could shed some light on a museum robbery, it would have been the Bureau's CI with a shady past and known acquaintances in the art world.

Peter needed him on this case. No doubt about that. Of course, Neal wouldn't go as far as going inside the FBI to offer his help, but he could easily send anonymous information.

It felt like a guilty desire. Seeing Peter, the baby, breathing the unique atmosphere of the most wonderful city in the world. But helping Peter solve the greatest case of his career? What better gift from a dead man? To thank him one last time…

Not allowing himself to think too much about it and find all the reasons that made this a very bad idea, Neal ran his fingers over the Ipad and booked himself a flight. He would leave in the morning, arriving in New York in the early afternoon. He would have time to drop his stuff at the hotel and then visit the container. He couldn't wait to see if Peter had touched anything.

* * *

TBC…

* * *

We are not doctors and don't know a thing about puffer fish poisoning, so forgive us for the liberties taken on the effects of the poisoning…


	5. Day 3

_AN/ Thank you for your comments._

 _Everything is in place now._ _As an infamous character once said in POI, "Let's the game begin"..._

* * *

 _Day 3 - NYPD, 10:00 am_

John was studying the victim's report. For the past two hours, he had been reviewing the file of their crime scene; scene that was now also the place of discovery of a rare painting.

Reginald Anderson, 72 years old, killed instantly by a gun shot. The autopsy didn't reveal anything extraordinary about the cause of the death: the brain had been ripped apart by a bullet. Their victim probably hadn't even realized that he had been shot. However, the medical examination had shown that the bullet had only sped up things. Reginald Anderson had cancer, leaving him with only a few months to live. All things considered, John thought, this violent death was preferable to a long suffering.

The victim owned the apartment he had been found in, had a few savings in a bank account. He was an artist that managed to live selling his art and had never been employed. Apparently, a slightly bohemian existence that had allowed him to live his passion, although his art had never made him famous.

Reality was bound to be quite different.

Who kept half a million dollars in cash in an apartment with a scrambler and a secret room? Who was Reginald? Or rather, what was the real name of their victim? John was convinced the dull identity was just a front.

And, most importantly, what was a painting stolen in 1990 doing in his apartment?

He had thoroughly studied Burke's file. The robbers had never been found, the paintings had never been heard of again. He couldn't help thinking that something had happened either during or right after the theft. Everything had been prepared meticulously, the theft orchestrated like a symphony. It meant a team and thorough preparation. John remembered Alvaredo, the man who had kidnapped Neal a couple of years back. That man would have had the means to organize such a robbery. Yet that kind of art wasn't what the Texan looked for; still, it was pretty obvious there was a sponsor behind the theft.

What was his link with Reginald? Accomplice? Thief? It was complicated. And Reginald's fake identity had been crafted so well, he couldn't crack it. He sent a message to Finch asking him to widen the search, on more secret networks. In 1990, Darknet was already running. His friend might have more luck than on the databases of the police.

He raised his eyes hearing Fusco groan. His partner was just as frustrated as him.

"Let's go back to the apartment," he suggested.

"You think you haven't found enough stuff yet?" Fusco shot back, still impressed by the way his partner had found the secret room and the evidence.

"You never know. We could stop on the way and have a falafel for lunch."

Fusco opened his eyes wide. Usually Reese mocked his culinary tastes. "You're dying?"

John lifted a lip in a smile. "You've got to live dangerously sometimes…"

Both men rose and left the precinct.

* * *

 _Day 3 - Peter Burke's office, FBI, morning_

Peter was reading the file from the robbery in 1990. He smiled, amused by his own comments, clues and suppositions. He had always been very meticulous, writing down everything, keeping every single bit of information. Some notes on the documents, words, reminded him that he had, more than once, thought the thieves had had inside help. On more than one occasion fresh leads had vanished right when he had thought he was making progress.

And 25 years later, Peter couldn't help thinking he had probably been right. Either these thieves were the luckiest guys in the world or someone was feeding them information on the police investigation.

The victim detective Riley had found was an artist who managed to sell his paintings through art galleries. But if Peter allowed himself a documented guess, he would bet Anderson didn't just sell original works. The fact that there were several identical statues being done made Peter think the man was a forger. A good forger could earn much more money than a little known artist. With the proper network to fence them, there were a lot of opportunities. Which would explain the huge amount of cash. But how to explain the presence of the painting?

Were they about to see copies suddenly appearing? Anderson could have pretended he had found the original painting, and then sold forgeries? Peter didn't think that such a scheme could have remained secret for long. Sooner or later, someone would have heard about it.

 _Damn_. How he missed Neal! With his own talent and his dubious network, they would have been able to move forward, or at least hear about someone who knew someone who had seen…

He couldn't believe he was actually wishing he could access to the shady world of Neal and Mozzie…

* * *

 _Day 3 - Decommissioned subway station, 7:30 pm_

"Mr. Reese, I just saw Mr. Caffrey on the camera you asked me to tap," Finch informed his employee.

"Is he inside the container?"

"No. He was going to enter when somebody showed up and Mr. Caffrey vanished."

"Let's hope he'll come back. I'll go immediately."

Glad he wasn't too far, John stepped on the accelerator to go to the container. He really wanted to talk to Neal.

* * *

 _Day 3 - Decommissioned subway station, 8:30 pm_

"I thought only cats were supposed to have several lives…" John said while removing the black hood from the head.

He bent to cut the zip ties on the wrists, one of the few things Neal couldn't get rid of that easily.

The surprise on the face deserved a photograph.

"John!" Neal exclaimed happily and obviously relieved.

"I thought we had agreed you would stay out of trouble," John's reproach was wasted by the light amused smile he couldn't help on his lips.

Neal rubbed his wrists with a wince. Handcuffs were definitely much more comfortable. He looked around him at the old subway station.

"Nice place," he commented. "Not so sure about the light…"

John glared at him.

"What?" Neal asked innocently.

"Neal… You don't want to find out how good I am at getting information."

His face was serious, no trace of humor and Neal blanched visibly. He didn't fear the man. Well, not really, but that look was enough to make a saint worry… and he was no saint.

"Have you been keeping track of me after Texas?" Neal asked.

"No. We don't get involved after we save…" John stopped short almost having slipped and said 'numbers'. Neal had become more than just a number.

"Still, you apparently knew I was… _dead_." Neal made an apologetic face.

"It's called obituaries Neal…" John shot back, a cold shiver running down his back as he remembered the day he had read it. "And it really came as a shock; I thought you were in Washington at the time."

"Oh… right…" Neal sighed running a head through his hair; it was back to its normal length. "Never made it there actually."

John was almost afraid to ask, but he had to. "Sara?"

Neal's face crumbled and John closed his eyes in despair. He knew that look, he had seen it in his own eyes.

"That evening after you left, I proposed to Sara, and she said yes." His eyes teared up and a small smile came to his lips as he remembered his happiness that night. "She had to go back to London to wrap up things. She…"

His voice broke and he shuddered.

"She had faced the most dubious people in her life. She could handle her baton like no one else." He breathed in. "And she was killed in a stupid traffic accident. Hit by a car while she was crossing a street. I…" He bit his lips to fight the tears, "I didn't even get to say goodbye. She was killed on the spot."

"Oh, Neal… I'm sorry," John said softly.

Neal really had no luck with women. First Kate, then Sara. John wondered how Neal faking his death wasn't a way to really end his own life. By killing his past, maybe he stood a chance at building a new one without such dark memories.

He let the man a few minutes to gather himself before prompting him again.

"How come you didn't go to Washington?"

"During her health check-up for the job, Elizabeth found out she was pregnant so she came back to New York and Peter officially turned down the job in DC. I somehow got close to the Pink Panthers gang and I managed to revise our agreement. I would help the FBI take the Pink Panthers down and I would be free immediately."

"No more contract?"

"No." Neal kept silent for a few minutes.

"I had already decided that I wanted to disappear, for good this time. So while I went after the group, I prepared my last vanishing act. The only way to start over was to make sure the FBI witnessed my death, that… _Peter_ witnessed my death."

Neal remained silent for a few seconds.

"I live in Paris. Things are working nicely for me."

"Coming back to New York seems a bit dangerous…"

"I keep reading the New York Times every day," he confessed with a smile, half guilty, half amused. "I read an article about the paintings robbery 'Storm of the Sea of Galileo', Rembrandt's only sea painting, found 25 years after its theft? I remember that story. That robbery was one of a kind. When I saw Peter was in charge… Not surprising since he had been on the case back then." He shrugged. "I also wanted to see the baby… Do you know they named him after me?" His voiced cracked on the words.

"How do you think you're going to manage that? Peter is going to spot you miles away!"

"Oh, but I already saw him," Neal answered with a smile. "He is gorgeous." His face expressed the pride of a brand new father.

John shook his head. The man feared nothing. On the other hand, what could he expect from a guy who had base jumped from a building right in the heart of New York?

Neal frowned watching John with a sudden perplex look.

"By the way, why did you kidnap me?"

"I realized Peter knows you're not dead."

"I may have left a few clues…" Neal admitted.

"In the container. Yeah, I know."

"You got in?" Neal asked eyes wide open. John couldn't help a condescending look. "Yes, of course."

"So, why did you bring me here?" Neal asked.

"Neal, you may be convinced I am just a cold blooded assassin, but hearing about your death was hard. When I met Peter because of the painting, of course we mentioned you. I realized he was hiding something so I followed him."

"And when you saw me by the container, you thought you'd stop for a chat? I'm flattered."

"I wanted the truth. I also didn't want to expose you, so throwing you in a trunk was the easiest way."

"Yeah, about that…" Neal growled. "You ruined my suit."

John chuckled. Neal rose from his chair looking at the setting.

"What happened to the Library?"

"The place had been compromised, we had to move."

"How in the world did you find this place?"

"Finch has his secrets."

"I bet. Where is he?"

"At the university."

"He's teaching?"

"Part of our cover."

"I didn't think he needed a cover."

"Things got complicated. A lot has changed after your trip to Texas…"

"Hey! I never asked to go there!" Neal complained, unconsciously taking a hand to his shoulder. "And how's Shaw doing?" he asked watching the station name plate.

He turned around when he realized that John wasn't answering.

"John?"

The ex-agent sighed.

"We don't know. Finch has convinced himself she's dead so he can start mourning and not hope in vain. I'm not that brave. I keep hoping she's just a prisoner somewhere and that somehow we'll manage to get her back…"

"Complicated is a bit of an understatement…" Neal said softly.

"Yeah…"

"Zoe?" Neal asked hesitantly.

John had a genuine smile. "On and off. She understands my life isn't simple."

"No kidding…"

"Guys like us can't have happy endings, Neal."

"That's what Mozz used to say…"

"I'm curious. How did you manage to fake your death? You managed to fool the FBI and your best friends."

"You had a look at the stuff I left in the container I guess?" Neal asked with a laugh. "Of course…" He shook his head thinking about it. "Not exactly piece of cake."

He told him about his last case with Peter. How they had managed to arrest the Pink Panthers, how he had orchestrated his death… Hearing the story Peter had told him not that long ago, but this time told by Neal, shed a whole new light on it. The agent had no idea what Neal had engineered behind his back.

"I left some clues for Peter. I knew in time he would find the container." Neal sighed. "I left it for him. I assumed he would like to know I was still alive, as a friend, beyond his FBI responsibility."

"And it weighs on him. As an agent, sooner or later, he's going to feel compelled to bring the art forward." It totally explained that flash that had gone through the agent's eyes when they had met. A complicated mix of guilt and joy, the agent vs the friend. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You left all your friends. You chose a lonely life, Neal."

"I miss them," Neal confessed. "All of them. I loved my life here…"

Neal straightened up suddenly. "Wait a minute. You told me you had seen Peter? That doesn't sound very safe. After all, I may be dead, but according to what Mozzie found so are you."

John winced.

"Yeah, meeting him wasn't really planned."

Neal raised an eyebrow.

"What did your newspaper article say about the painting?" John asked.

"Not that much. They made a big deal of the original robbery and the fact that the case had never been solved. And it explained one of the paintings had been found on a crime scene, almost by accident."

"My crime scene," John explained.

"Your?"

"Finch's cover is a university professor. Mine is more in line with my expertise…"

"Homicide detective?" Neal stammered. "God. I knew Finch was good, but that… Wow, quite the fake identity…" He couldn't believe it. His own aliases suddenly sounded flimsy.

John didn't correct him. Neal already knew enough about their organization, no need to feed him more information. And the possibility that the Machine never worked again still existed, which meant no more numbers to save.

"As you can guess, finding that painting has had the effect of an atomic bomb. Peter is in charge of the task force, and I am part of the team too, of course."

"Oh dear. I would have loved to see that meeting…" Neal laughed.

"I thought Peter was going to have fit," John admitted with smug smile. "But working with him is great; I understand why you were so close."

"Yes. Peter is a good person," Neal answered with a tone of regret.

"There's another guy from White Collars. Some big boss from Washington…" John stopped when he saw Neal go pale.

"Kramer?" he asked, his voice weak.

"He's shady," John said. "And it's pretty obvious Peter hates him."

"He's the reason I ran to Cape Verde," Neal whispered.

John watched him dumbfounded as Neal told him how Kramer was the reason he had run back then. He remembered Finch telling him about it, but he had forgotten the name. That explained a few things…

"If you're going to be walking around in New York, be careful. He'd be delighted to get his hands on you no matter how dead you're supposed to be."

"He probably didn't enjoy being assigned on this case. He had failed the first time around. Having to work with Peter must be a burden."

"As far as I know, he came on his own."

"I'm surprised. If he fails again, that's not going to look good."

"You think we won't find the robbers?" John asked, slightly offended.

Neal smiled shaking his head.

"Don't take it the wrong way. This theft is one of a kind. The holy grail for thieves like me. We all dream of duplicating something like that. 'The theft of the century'… quite an achievement."

John was watching him dumbfounded.

"What?" Neal asked.

"What happened to the 'alleged' thief, the 'hypothetical' achievement?"

Neal laughed softly. "Mozzie would be proud of you," he whispered.

"Does he know?"

"That I'm alive?"

John nodded and Neal shook his head in answer.

"If there's anyone you can tell the truth to, Neal!" John reproached.

"I can't put him in danger."

"What do you mean?"

"I told you about the Pink Panthers. That kind of organization has reach even from behind bars.

"And you being the one responsible for their arrest…"

"You can't kill a dead man," Neal concluded.

John frowned. He totally understood what the ex-thief feared. The past was sometimes a heavy load to carry.

"You should meet Peter. I'm sure he'd appreciate the help on this case. If anyone can understand how the robbers managed that heist…"

Neal winced. "Honestly, it's a meeting I'm afraid of."

"More afraid than blow fish poisoning?"

Neal laughed. "Of course, if you put it that way…"

* * *

 _Day 3 - Decommissioned subway station, 11:30 pm_

"Mr. Reese, I have new information on agent Kramer. As usual, your instincts were right on the mark."

"There's a long history between him and Burke."

"You can say that again," Finch confirmed. "Agent Kramer had been Peter Burke's mentor. He's had a rising career in Washington, while Burke achieved his own success in New York. Kramer worked with a CI for quite a long time, but the association turned sour when his CI fell on the wrong side of the law again and went back to prison. I think we can guess that he was jealous of the friendship between agent Burke and Mr. Caffrey. When he realized the depth of their friendship and the talents of Mr. Caffrey he thought he had an opportunity to boost his own career. He was in New York during the hearings to decide on Mr. Caffrey's release. He studied the files very thoroughly and of course stumbled upon some… indiscretions in Burke's file."

"Neal's influence, no doubt about it."

"Evidently. Agent Burke has sometimes averted his eyes on some of the 'techniques' used to allow them to arrest the culprits."

"You can hardly blame him."

"But it gave Kramer a good base for blackmail. He finally found a way to deny Mr. Caffrey's release and get to have him moved to his own service in Washington."

"That's when Neal cut his anklet and ran to Cape Verde."

"There is no way Mr. Caffrey could have had that information. It seems pretty obvious agent Burke warned him."

"Peter would have explicitly told Neal to run?"

"I am convinced of it."

"It took him six weeks to find him again…"

"I believe agent Burke was truly confused between his duty to find him and his friendship for Neal." Finch moved the mouse on the screen. "In the end, he took a personal leave of absence to look for him… with the unofficial approval of his boss."

"And what about Kramer?"

"When Mr. Caffrey disappeared, he went back to Washington. He had no way to prove Burke was behind it. Chances are he held a grudge against agent Burke about that situation. His career never got the boost Burke's had."

"You think he's still mad at Burke? After all Neal is dead…"

"And therefore he can't punish him."

"Burke honestly looked surprised to see Kramer join the task force. His real goal might not be to help solve the case, maybe quite the opposite actually."

"Any clues on the theft?"

"None. It was quite the exceptional team."

"As exceptional as Mr. Caffrey?"

"If he hadn't been too young back then, I would have certainly considered his involvement," John admitted. "You know Finch, I'm starting to think that if anyone can solve this case it will be Neal."

"You are probably right."

"Meanwhile, I'll keep an eye on Kramer."

* * *

 _TBC…_

 _AN/ As usual, the whole story is already written. We are just publishing it by bits to keep some suspense going on._

 _For those of you who watch Blindspot, you can imagine our reaction during the last episode. Talk about coincidence. I hadn't laughed so hard in a long time..._


	6. Day 4

_Okay, THE meeting you were expecting..._

* * *

 _Day 4 - Neal's container, 7:00 a.m._

Peter took the key from his pocket as he approached the container and froze. It wasn't locked. He knew he had closed it the last time he had come; someone had gotten inside.

He pulled his gun out and went inside cautiously, back against the wall, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness inside.

A silhouette could be seen, sitting in the arm chair.

"Peter, you know I hate guns. Put that thing away," a familiar voice said.

Flipping the switch, the agent lit the container.

Comfortably sitting in the antique arm chair, an amused smile on his lips, Neal was holding a teddy bear wearing a blue tie.

"I wanted to leave a present for my godson, then I thought it would be more polite to give it personally."

"Your godson?" Peter repeated his voice choked. Of course, he knew Neal wasn't dead, the contents of this place proved it, but seeing him for real was staggering.

"Seeing as he carries my name…" Neal explained raising a shoulder. He got up slowly. "That was a really nice thing to do…" His own voice broke. The happiness of seeing Peter was becoming too much.

"Neal!" Peter whispered and rushed to hug him.

They remained holding each other a while, the gesture conveying their joy more than any words could. Finally stepping back, Peter blinked repeatedly to clear the tears that had gathered in his eyes.

Neal watched him with a smile, his own eyes slightly red. "Oh come on, it's only a teddy bear. It was the least I could do." His wavering voice belied the humor of the voice.

"I should cuff you to that chair, and never let you go out again," Peter grumbled.

Neal raised an amused eyebrow. "I'm not _that_ rusty…"

"You would have me believe you are now an exemplary citizen?" Peter asked in a fake serious tone.

"I always thought being exemplary lacked style…" Neal answered back.

Peter still had a hand on his arm, as if he needed the contact to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him. He shook his head slowly.

"I can't believe it. Of course, I had solved your treasure hunt, but actually seeing you…"

Squeezing Neal's arm one last time, he let go and rubbed his hands over his face, discreetly wiping away the last stray tears.

"I thought we were friends, Neal…" he reproached softly. Neal opened his mouth in protest, but Peter didn't let him talk. "Friends don't hurt the ones they love," he explained in a cold voice.

Now that the rush of the meeting was coming down, he was starting to feel anger. He could gladly hit him. Neal couldn't help a step back as he noticed the change.

"I couldn't go on, Peter… I…" He sighed, not knowing how to explain his decision.

"I know. You wanted your wings back. Mozzie told me that you had made your decision even before you were kidnapped."

"You kept in touch with Mozz?" Neal asked in surprise.

Peter paled suddenly. "He doesn't know?" he stammered.

Neal rolled his eyes. First John, now Peter. Who else was going to blame him for hiding the truth from his best friend? It was for his own good, for heaven's sake!

"He's going to kill you for that…"

"No, Mozzie is a peaceful person. He might decide to turn his back on me, I realize that."

"He should club you with a baseball bat."

"I didn't know you had gotten that close."

"He visits quite often. I thought he was close to Diana's baby because he had been there to play midwife, but I found out that he actually just loves kids."

"They're pure and innocent. They're the only persons around whom he can be himself."

"So, what brings you to New York?" Peter was no fool. He knew Neal wasn't there to bring a gift to his self-appointed "godson".

"I keep reading the New York Times," Neal started with a smile. He couldn't help a sense of deja-vu, or was it "deja-said"?

Peter squinted. "Swear that you weren't involved in the original theft…"

Neal burst out laughing.

"I…" He laughed louder at Peter's dark stare. He inhaled deeply trying to regain his seriousness. "Peter, I know I started at an early age, but you're overestimating my talent. Just think about it, I was 13 years old!"

Peter grumbled for a moment.

"I wouldn't be that surprised; Mozzie told me how you messed with the clocks at school then forged your own bus card. That case drove us all crazy back then."

"They are positive the painting is the original one?" Neal asked.

"Yes, no doubt about it."

"This is a really amazing story. No one heard about those painting again. They just vanished forever."

"In my opinion, the theft was to order. The happy 'new owner' is enjoying the art in his living room."

"I would have loved working on that case," Neal whispered.

Peter tilted his head, with a thoughtful look.

"What…?" Neal asked slightly worried.

"I never thought of showing you the old file when we worked together."

"We were usually kind of busy."

Peter started pacing. "You can hardly come to the FBI offices to have a look at the file…"

"Oh come on Peter. I know you. I'm pretty sure you have a copy at home."

Peter pinched his lips and looked away, watching the art in the container.

"Peter?" Neal asked softly, wondering about the sudden change.

"I didn't tell Elizabeth about you." Peter explained.

Neal opened his mouth, then closed it too astounded to talk for a moment.

"You hid this from El?" he asked when he found his voice again.

Peter winced. "She's going to kill me."

"At least. Then cut you in tiny pieces and feed you to Satchmo…"

"I'll go bankrupt from 'forgive me' presents," Peter commented.

"My advice would be to do things big from the very beginning. Start with a trip around the world."

"Well, we could always visit you in Paris, right?" Peter answered back with a smile.

Neal didn't answer. Despite his happiness at seeing Peter, he wasn't too sure he wanted him to learn everything about his new life. They had just met again; Neal was far from having decided what he would do next.

"You would need a place to work discreetly. Actually, maybe here…" Peter mumbled.

Neal had a smug smile. "I know someone who should be able to get me a safe place."

Peter frowned. Safe places were Mozzie's strong suit, but given the circumstances that might take some time.

"I saw John," Neal explained. "His 'partner' owns a few places; I'm pretty sure he wouldn't mind sharing."

"Who is that guy, Neal?" Peter asked, frustrated by how little he knew about that mysterious man.

"If I only knew…" He laughed softly. "Mozzie almost went crazy trying to find out. I think he's a little jealous," he added as an afterthought.

"I have never seen such a well-crafted identity. Your own aliases seem pretty flimsy compared to that."

"Hey!" Neal protested feeling insulted. "If you didn't make it a game to burn them one by one, I would have had time to work out the details more carefully."

"Anyway, he is quite the detective. He is really good. He seems to be able to get information out of thin air."

"I bet…" Neal whispered to himself.

Peter watched him silently. Obviously Neal knew more than he admitted about John. Of course, the man had saved his life twice, no doubt Neal felt indebted.

"So, you want to help us? Not officially of course, for obvious reasons… Mister Ghost."

"You're going to hold that against me for a long time?" Neal asked with a wince.

"Haven't made up my mind yet."

Neal sighed. There was another meeting he was dreading. More than that. His stomach hurt just thinking about it. But postponing it wouldn't change the outcome.

"Could you set me up a meeting with Mozzie? I don't know where to reach him."

Peter nodded. "Tell me where and when and I'll send him a message. He can't resist an encrypted note."

* * *

 _Day 4 - Neal's container, 8:00 am_

Peter and Neal jumped when the door of the container opened silently. Peter instinctively pulled his gun aiming at the shape that appeared. Both sighed in relief when they recognized John, who couldn't help a slight smug smile.

"Well, Neal is still alive, so I guess your reunion went well," John said getting inside.

"Not that bad," Peter answered.

"In case you haven't noticed, there is a surveillance camera pointing in this direction," John mentioned.

"You mean…" Neal started.

"Relax. We hacked the camera. I keep track of everything going on around here, but the recording only shows a container that no one comes to."

Peter noted the "we" used by detective Riley, which only confirmed Neal's mention of a partner earlier. Although he had a million questions, he decided to keep silent. Deep inside, he knew he wouldn't get an answer, not the real one anyway.

Neal didn't give John much time to talk. "I need a safe place. Do you still have one available?"

"Quite the unexpected question. I thought you managed to remain invisible quite well."

Peter noticed the easy teasing between the two men.

"I'd like Neal to work on the theft see he can find out some clues. After all, the best person to second guess a thief is another thief."

"Hey!" Neal complained.

Peter dismissed the interruption. "He cannot come to my place since I didn't tell my wife that Neal is still alive." He also ignored the dark glare Neal shot him. "And because of the camera, coming to this place doesn't sound very safe."

"Of course, I can find you a place," John answered. "Let me know when you are ready and I'll take you there."

"Thank you," Peter answered slowly. Neal had only been back two days and he was already stepping into the grey zone. The influence of his ex CI knew no bounds.

"On a different topic," John resumed. "I wanted to share information with you prior to the service meeting later."

Peter immediately straightened, interested.

"The death of our forger is not a murder but an aided suicide. We have proof that he paid an assassin to kill him. He had been diagnosed as being in the last stages of cancer," John explained, holding out the file. "It seems he preferred a sudden death to suffering in a hospital for a long time."

"Thanks to the IP address found in his computer, we managed to track back conversations on a dubious site in the seediest parts of the web."

"You mean the Darknet," Peter interjected. "I'm impressed. The NYPD finally using high technology…" he added knowingly.

"We can't let you guys at the FBI have it all," John countered.

He went on with his explanations.

"The alias used by his interlocutor is well known by police forces worldwide. There is an international arrest warrant against him, Boris Antonov. I requested a ballistic report on the bullet found in our victim's head to have it compared with the ones present in Antonov's file. Of course, he could have used another weapon, but I doubt it. Assassins tend to favor a couple of weapons, usually specially custom made ones. If there is a match, then we'll have our proof. I'm putting an APB out, but I doubt we'll find him. He's been running away for the past 20 years."

Peter had to admit that was incredible work. John's sources of information might be slightly questionable, but the "detective" was really good.

Peter was already picturing the briefing later: the NYPD was moving forward while the FBI still didn't have a clue. That wasn't acceptable. If John was using personal sources, there was no way he wasn't going to do the same. Without Diana and Jones, he really needed Neal to start getting them some kind of progress.

* * *

 _Day 4 - Decommissioned subway station, 9:30 am_

John entered the subway station and was jostled by Root who shot him a deadly look before leaving. He pushed himself against the wall letting her go while she grumbled to herself.

"What did I do?" he asked Finch, casting a last glance backwards.

Root was usually quite calm, at least apparently. Something had must have driven her mad for her to act that way.

Finch sighed.

"Miss Groves is sometimes…" He shook his head. "We don't always have the same point of view on how to rebuild the Machine."

"She probably feels lonely," John said softly.

Root had been overwhelmed by Shaw's disappearance, then the Machine had "vanished" too. Root had lived almost for two years directly connected to the AI, following "her" requests to the letter. She probably felt abandoned now that the Machine was only code in a brief case.

Finch straightened up in surprise and gave a half-smile to the ex-spy. For a person that could be seen as cold and uncaring, John was often much more human than some people who seemed apparently friendly.

"You are probably right, indeed."

Both men looked at the briefcase to which numerous cables were attached. To them it represented the heart of the Machine. They had never been that close and at the same time that far away from Her.

"To what do I owe you the pleasure of your visit, Mr. Reese? I thought your case was keeping you busy."

"It does. As does Neal. He needs a safe place to work on the robbery file. The problem is that the FBI will hear about the place, so it would need to be a place you're ready to sacrifice."

Finch winced as if he had been asked to give away a kidney. With their limited funds, he couldn't afford that kind of loss currently.

"Mr. Reese, I thank you for the level of faith you have in me, still you underestimate your own capabilities."

John raised a questioning eyebrow. He didn't own anything; the last place he had was the flat Finch had given him for his birthday.

"As a member of the police force you have access to apartments designed to protect witnesses."

"I highly doubt hiding a 'dead' criminal in a place belonging to the Police is a good idea."

Finch bent over his keyboard shaking his head. "As long as they don't know the apartment exists," he explained in a slightly harassed tone, as if the request was so simple that John could have taken care of it himself.

He quickly entered the list of safe police apartments in New York, chose one and deleted it from the list. The flat had suddenly disappeared, not a chance anyone would come in for a visit.

"There," he concluded. "46th and 3rd, 5th floor. I'm sure you do not need a key, otherwise ask Mr. Caffrey. I've been told he is quite the specialist."

John wrote down the address and waited for Finch to add anything else, but the genius was focused on his computer and seemed to have forgotten all about John.

What had happened between Finch and Root? Rebuilding the Machine was a difficult task, but with two brains like those, John had no doubt they'd manage it. Maybe that was the problem.

Both were highly intelligent; combining their ideas was bound to be intense, all the more since they had quite different methods. If Root had suggested some means to get technology or information that didn't suit Finch, it could have escalated. Root had no quarms about using violence, even though she had settled down somewhat since she had joined their team. Finch hated the single idea that John owned weapons…

As a matter of fact, John was rather glad not to be there that often. Some days the tension probably cracked the walls.

He left the station with a last word. "Thank you Finch. Have a nice day."

He got no answer; not that he was expecting one.

* * *

 _Day 4 - Apartment at the corner of 3rd and 46th, 1:00 pm_

Neal put down the last box with the information about the museum heist.

He stretched to get his vertebra realigned and looked at the room around him. This was far from the classy apartment Finch had let him have when they had come back from Texas. No painting room or fancy living room. This place was just functional.

It suddenly made sense. This place didn't belong to John and Finch; it was most probably one of the safe houses used by the Police to hide their witnesses. No way would John have let them know where the place was otherwise.

He had been surprised when John had come to pick them up and drive them openly to the building. It was probably the first time John had driven him somewhere with no cuffs and/or a hood.

Yet, he was ready to bet that the place had been "requisitioned". Finch had probably hacked some database and made sure the flat had disappeared from the listing.

Once he had closed the door after Peter and John's departure, Neal looked at the amount of boxes in front of him.

He could tell just by the color of the boxes which ones dated back to the original theft and which contained the information about the recent discovery of the painting.

He couldn't help an amused laugh. Although he swore by the line he had to obey, Peter had once again stepped over onto the other side to try and solve the case, while probably having convinced himself that he wasn't doing anything wrong. That was probably one of the reasons Neal had enjoyed working with him so much. He sighed in regret. He still missed it. He truly enjoyed his new life, but he missed their friendship and cases.

He bent over the boxes and started pulling out the files. Soon he was engrossed in the study of the museum robbery and the police reports.

The theft by itself was a real jewel. He was almost jealous at never having achieved such a masterpiece. This was the Everest of museum robbery, a truly unique wonder.

But, as he studied the pieces more closely, it soon became obvious the robbers had had help. Some details were weird. Even the best criminal mind couldn't avoid some realities. They had benefited from inside help, a mole. Which wasn't all that surprising. Put the right price and you could buy anything, or anyone. Including these paintings, since the theft had obviously been to order.

He smiled when he found a handwritten report. It was Peter's, his writing already unreadable, no matter what the agent said about it… The style was already there too, not as sharp yet, but very promising.

Comfortably seated, Neal lost himself in the reading. A few hours later, he jumped when his phone buzzed reminding him of an appointment.

He winced. In the past, he had kept very few secrets from Mozzie. Just a few... Mozzie himself would have been disappointed if his pupil hadn't shown any restraint toward his mentor. Keeping to himself where some of his stuff was hidden was one of them. Of course, the way he had learned about it after Kate's disappearance had not been the best moment. Actually, his biggest secret had been not telling him he had the U-boat manifest. Their friendship had almost blown to pieces that day. If Elizabeth hadn't been kidnapped by Keller, chances were they would have lost contact at the time.

So, how was he going to react when he realized his best friend was not actually dead? If the roles had been reversed, chances were he would find it hard to forgive. He was hoping Mozzie would be more lenient…

* * *

 _Day 4 – Warehouse on the docks, 6:00 pm_

Mozzie entered the warehouse, his eyes on his phone.

"Peter, I do enjoy this kind of secret meetings, but you realize there is no need for them. I would have come…"

Raising his head, he saw Neal in the middle of the room with an impish smile on his lips.

"Neal…" The word didn't actually make it out of his mouth; it sounded more like a grunt.

Mozzie's face turned ghostly and Neal lost his smile. His friend looked one second away from passing out. He put a gentle hand on his arm.

"Mozz…"

Coming back to his senses, Mozzie threw a right hook to his jaw, followed by a left punch to his stomach.

"Arrgh, Mozz." Neal raised his arms trying to protect himself.

"How could you… cannot… dead…" Only fragments of sentences made it out of his lips as he kept hitting his friend, then, exhausted, he fell against Neal's chest, letting his tears flow.

Finding it hard to hold his own tears, Neal hugged him and let his best friend cry on his jacket.

"I'm sorry Mozz, so terribly sorry," he choked overwhelmed.

"I hate you…" Mozz whispered his voice broken.

"I know."

They remained silent for a while, slowly gathering their calm. Mozzie finally stepped back.

"I don't remember ever holding someone like that…" he mumbled.

Neal had a little smile, fully aware of Mozzie's aversion at touching people.

"I am sincerely sorry Mozzie. I know it doesn't excuse me, but I really did it with your own interest in mind," Neal explained.

"It obviously didn't bother you to tell Peter."

Neal winced. He had hoped that accusation would come later. His friendship for both men was different if not as important to him.

"I wanted you to have a life. I knew the second you learned I was alive you wouldn't stop until you found me. You know I am on the hit list of the Pink Panthers."

"They're in jail!" Mozzie countered.

Neal tilted his head raising a skeptical eyebrow. The walls of a prison had never been an obstacle for some kinds of people.

Mozzie raised a hand to briefly touch Neal's arm. "I still can't believe it."

"I bet your fists can confirm it. God, where did you learn to hit like that?" Neal rubbed his jaw. "I'm lucky I didn't lose a tooth…"

Mozzie answered with a wicked grin. "You're not the only one with secrets. Come on, let's go home. I've got the perfect bottle for this. A Chateau Petrus 2000."

"2000? That bottle is mine!" Neal whined.

"Yeah, well, it's not as if you needed it in your grave…" Mozzie answered without a hint of regret.

* * *

 _Day 4 – 'Thriday', Mozzie's place, 8:30 pm *_

Mozzie and Neal were comfortably seated in the couch of "Thriday". When Neal had raised a questioning eyebrow, Mozzie had started a long and detailed explanation about the loss of part of his former living quarters and need to search for new hiding grounds. Neal had just nodded.

Then he had graciously submitted to Mozzie's grilling, answering every question from the moment he had decided to disappear "alone" (Mozzie had particularly emphasized the word) to his daily life in Paris. The last details had apparently satisfied Mozzie's curiosity, and the conversation had been completely sated, both men just sat, enjoying each other's presence.

"If I wasn't currently so mad at you, I think I'd be jealous," Mozzie told him whilst emptying his glass.

Neal raised his glass to his lips to hide his amused smile. Despite the bitching and promises of eternal wrath, Neal knew very well that Mozzie wouldn't hold it against him for long, he was too happy to see him alive.

The wine bottle was almost empty. It was a pity that they had drunk such a vintage so fast, but Neal's tale had needed fluids.

Neal apologized for the umpteenth time. "I am sorry Mozz. Not telling you the truth was the hardest part of the plan."

"I certainly hope so!" Mozzie exclaimed.

Neal couldn't help a wince again.

"So, to what do we owe the honor of your visit?"

"Newspaper article actually," Neal confessed in a low voice.

Mozzie took his hand to his heart, pretending to be truly hurt. "And some say you never tell the truth… For once, maybe some embellishment would have been appreciated."

"I keep reading the New York Times every day. They found the 'Storm on the Sea of Galileo'."

"The painting stolen at the Stewart Gardner museum in 1990?"

Neal smiled in amusement. Mozzie's memory hadn't changed one bit.

"You haven't heard about it? It's been quite the news."

"No. I was focused on something else," Mozzie explained, his tone clearly conveying that he wouldn't talk about the 'something else'.

"Peter is leading the task team."

"If they find the robbers, it could well be the crowning of his career," Mozzie remarked, although he didn't seem to think that was likely to happen.

"He does have a head start."

"How so?"

"He was part of the team in charge in 1990. He knows the file like no one else."

Mozzie frowned. "Wasn't he a bit young to lead such a case?"

"I didn't say he was in charge at the time…"

"Kramer!" Mozzie spat in distaste.

"Yeah, and to top it all, he is in New York to help Peter."

"What? Neal, you need to go back to Paris right now. This is far too dangerous!"

Neal laughed heartily. "And here I thought you had missed me. You are already tired of my company?"

"No! Neal, that man is dangerous. May I remind you that he is responsible for the scar you have on your leg?"

"Not exactly…"

"Patato, patahto," Mozzie mumbled.

"Don't worry. I'll be sure to keep in the shadows."

"You will keep in the shadows," Mozzie repeated slowly. "Neal, what are you hiding from me?"

Neal flashed him a blinding smile. He had missed Mozzie's intelligence. It felt wonderful talking with someone whose brain ran so fast.

Neal cleared his throat.

"I may have already agreed to help Peter with the case. Actually, I spent the afternoon reading the old files."

"Where? Damn Neal, do you need a safe place?" Mozzie asked straightening up, already reviewing in his head where he could hide his friend.

"No, I'm good. John got us a flat."

"John," Mozzie repeated trying to recall the name. He paled suddenly, "John, your mysterious guardian angel? The black hood specialist?"

"Listen to this: he is a homicide detective. The painting was on his crime scene, so he and Peter met each other in the FBI building." Neal shook his head. "What I would not give to have witnessed that meeting… Anyway, he is on the case, working along with Peter, and I agreed to have a look at the file. Come on, Mozzie. The biggest heist in history, paintings that have never been heard about since then. I really would like to know how they managed that…"

Neal suddenly realized that Mozzie had been unusually reflective.

"Mozz?" he called softly.

"I had totally forgotten about John. After your return, we were kind of busy… and then you… disappeared."

He rose and went to a trunk. He opened it and retrieved a flash drive.

"Finch had given me this the first time they helped you. When we met again after you were kidnapped, he asked me to destroy it. I didn't have time to try and crack it while we were taking care of the Pink Panthers, and then…"

Neal felt his heart tighten. He knew Mozzie had suffered from his "death", seeing the obvious pain on his face was almost too much.

"Mozzie, I'll never be able to forgive myself for the pain I caused you. I realize that. My only solace is that I couldn't allow them to hurt you. I'd rather have you hating me for the rest of your life than know that you had been killed because of me. I can go on with my life without seeing you if at least I know you are alive."

Mozzie got closer and touched his arm softly, as if needing the reassurance that this wasn't a mirage.

"I wouldn't trade a piece of the pain against the joy of knowing you are alive." He cleared his throat. "But don't ever do that again to me, I'm not that young anymore."

He gave the flash drive to Neal. "Here, give this to John when you see him. Tell Finch I believe him."

Neal took the memory stick expecting Mozzie to tell him more about it, then put it in his pocket when it became clear he wouldn't get more information.

"So, you're working at the library?"

"Huh… no… I'm in a safe house belonging to the police actually."

Neal mused for a second. Should he tell everything to Mozzie? "Everything" being quite a stretch. He wouldn't be able to tell where John and Finch's new headquarters were if his life depended on it. Jostled around in the trunk, he had been more worried about the jerks of his stomach that had already suffered from a less than quiet transatlantic flight.

"You didn't tell me how you met John," Mozzie asked.

"He found me… and as usual he slipped a hood on my head before throwing me in his trunk," Neal grumbled.

Mozzie laughed lightly. "I know I already asked, but who is that guy?"

"One puzzle at a time. How about we try to find who stole the paintings?"

"That is probably much easier…"

* * *

 _Day 4 - FBI, white collar meeting room, 6:00 pm_

The daily meeting had begun over an hour ago and Peter was still waiting for any information that would help the investigation.

The door opened after a brief knock and before Peter could answer, detective Riley entered the room. Earlier, Peter had told the other agents that the NYPD had made a progress in the case, having found out that the murder was actually a suicide by proxy.

Peter noted that Kramer seemed suddenly interested; he hadn't bothered to hide his boredom from the beginning of the meeting.

"Detective Riley, nice of you to join us!" Peter quipped. John was over an hour late.

"I apologize for being late, but we had a breakthrough that will probably help the FBI," John answered.

"Let's hear it."

"As you know, we assumed almost from the beginning that Reginald Anderson was a fake identity. A beautiful piece of work that we haven't been able to crack. So we decided to launch a facial recognition on all available databases. The result is quite promising," John outlined.

Peter was once again impressed by the results achieved by John and his partner. How could they get access to that information so fast? It was obvious they had access to resources far beyond the ones available to the police force.

He cast a look at his disheartened agents. They had actually launched a similar search in the morning but hadn't reached any result yet. He was pretty sure that if Diana and Jones had been there, they would have investigated that avenue much earlier.

Detective Riley connected a flash drive and explained the new findings.

Reginald Anderson was actually James Highsmith, a member of the "English Gang" that used to roam Europe in the 1970s and 1980s. The group was made of five thieves and had robbed quite a few European museums.

Their thefts had two signatures: none of the art stolen was ever recovered, and no one was ever hurt. This had actually given them some leniency, if not admiration from some people.

Four of them had been arrested while robbing the Bale modern art museum in 1981. The five robbers had been identified thanks to the state of the art cameras. The fifth robber hadn't been caught and had never been heard of again. Most thought he was dead since he had never resurfaced.

"A bit of light cosmetic surgery allowed him to change his face and live in the USA for several years without any problem. Even after his death, we cannot get much information from his bank accounts or official documents. Reginal Anderson, aka James Highsmith, was a model citizen."

John finished his explanation and fought an amused smile as the FBI agents all started typing on the computers, probably annoyed that a homicide detective had made a major progress on the part of the investigation they were supposed to run.

Surprisingly enough, Kramer was the one to start barking orders.

"Agent Boyle, call Interpol. I want the whole file in the English Gang. I'm sure detective Riley only had access to the redacted part."

"Agents Hutchison and Markle, go over the financial information once more, keep digging. Those bank accounts need to talk! I'll work with you."

Kramer raised from his chair and joined the two agents on the other side of the room; Peter caught John's eye and tilted his head inviting him to join him in his office.

"Well done," he said. "And why do I feel like you had access to the whole file no matter what agent Kramer thinks?" he added with an amused smile.

John didn't bother answering.

"Did you give us everything you have or are you holding some more for next time?" Peter asked in an ironic tone.

"I gave you a full debrief," John assured.

"I am pretty sure the bank accounts won't reveal anything further," John added. "I think it's only a waste of time, but I could hardly say that in the meeting without revealing my sources, and I don't need any more attention directed towards me."

Peter was convinced John was telling him the exact truth.

John carried on, "Any news from Neal?"

"No, not yet. But I'm not surprised. He has some 2000 pages to read and he was supposed to meet Mozzie in the evening," Peter answered, wondering how that meeting had gone. "We're supposed to meet at this place tomorrow morning at 8:00," he said.

"Then, I'll drop by. We can fully debrief together," John offered. "I'll bring the donuts," he added.

Peter started laughing. "Aren't you playing your cop role a bit too much? Anyway, Neal is a bit of a foodie. He'd rather have croissants…"

John smiled in answer and left his office.

Peter watched him go, surprised to see him go toward the meeting room where Kramer was working with the two agents, but his phone rang and he promptly answered. He never saw John stopping briefly to recover his phone that he had conveniently "forgotten" on the table. No one would have guessed that John had just blue jacked the agent number.

* * *

 _TBC_

* * *

(1) "Thriday": little nod to Mozzie's habit of giving day names to his houses in the show


	7. Day 5 - part 1

_Day 5 - Apartment at the corner of 3rd and 46th, 8:00 am_

Peter knocked twice to inform about his arrival, then used the key Neal had given him after he had changed the lock on the safe-house door.

It had taken some restraint, but Peter had finally convinced himself that he absolutely didn't want to know who this flat belonged to, how they had managed to get access and what could possibly be hidden in the closets. His many years working with Neal had made him quite good at that game. He mostly tried not to think about it unless he was ready to have his conscience disturb him. It was far too late to go back now. He felt like he was going further and further away on a catwalk while knowing perfectly well that there was only a void on the other side. He had decided he would wonder about the fall later… or maybe never.

The apartment was silent. A lamp was casting a shadow in the living room. Papers were lying on every available surface and there; crashed on the couch, was Neal softly snoring, a piece of paper under his face.

Peter got closer and put a hand his shoulder, shaking him lightly.

"Neal, wake-up."

The ex-CI jumped up, a wave of terror crossing his eyes before he recognized Peter.

"Scare a guy, why don't you," he complained rubbing his hands over his face.

"I knocked, but you didn't hear it apparently," Peter explained. "You do know there is a comfortably looking bed in the bedroom?"

Neal groaned. "Damn jetlag…"

He raised and moved on slightly wobbling feet to the bathroom. "Make yourself useful, start the coffee," he said.

Peter watched him walk away; an amused smile on his lips. He could count on the fingers of one hand the times Neal hadn't been sharp and dressed to the nines. Even when he showed up unexpectedly for breakfast, Neal always looked ready to leave for a black tie event, even in one of Byron's gowns.

Neal came back a few minutes later, hair combed and his face still fresh from water. He hadn't shaved, but the light shadow, now dotted with more grey hair than in the past, could not hide the bluish mark on his chin. Peter frowned realizing Neal had obviously been hit; but then he bit his lip to stop a laugh when he guessed who had thrown the punch.

Neal winced and took a hand to his still smarting jaw. For a guy who was a non-violent, Mozzie clearly knew how to use his fists. He raised his arms in defeat.

"Yes, I know. I deserve it," he admitted.

"Could have been worse," Peter commented, still fighting his laugh.

"You haven't seen my ribs," Neal mumbled.

The front door opened and both men turned in surprise. John stood in the entrance, holding a box.

"This place is like Grand Central Station." Neal remarked.

"John, perfect timing. Coffee is just ready."

John handed the box to Neal. "Good. I brought donuts."

Neal made a face of distaste and Peter gave John a knowing look. Watching the exchange, Neal wondered once again what had happened between the two of them since they had crossed paths again.

Sitting around the table, coffee and donuts handy, John and Peter listened to Neal as he explained what he had found out.

John watched him fascinated. He had witnessed the young man's intelligence in the past, but the way he could see links where no one would have even looked was the blinding proof of a genius brain. He wondered for a moment what a team comprised of Finch, Root and Neal could achieve - once they found common ground given their very different methods.

As he listened to Neal expose the facts, Peter felt a wave of nostalgia engulf him. He had almost forgotten how smart Neal was. More than once, after his disappearance, while listening to his teams and their lack of progress, he had berated himself for idealizing Neal's intelligence. Now that he was witnessing it once again, he realized that his memories had actually underestimated it.

"And so, in light of all that, here is my theory," Neal stated after taking a sip of coffee. He cast a glance at the donuts; he was hungry but the sole idea of eating those greasy pastries…

"The theft was commissioned, which seems undeniable; pieces that were much more valuable, such as the Titian painting or the Michelangelo drawings were untouched. Then for some mysterious reason I haven't been able to figure out yet, the patron vanished. Our thieves found themselves with paintings impossible to fence. I'm guessing, with no payment by their patron, they shared the loot. I also believe the team, I'm thinking two people, had inside help. If I could stretch my assumption, I'd even say it was someone from the FBI…"

"I knew it!" Peter interrupted, hitting the table with his hand. "They were always one step forward."

Neal hesitated before carrying on. "The method used for the heist bears a characteristic signature…"

"You did tell me you used to sign your forgeries," Peter commented.

"Copies," Neal automatically corrected, lost in thought.

John chuckled. Two days in New York and Neal was already reverting to his old habits. A copy was not a forgery, hence not a crime.

"It bears the signs Gordon Taylor's jobs do."

"Taylor, the thief of the baseball?" Peter interrupted.

Neal nodded and carried on.

"Although, he was a bit young at the time. He can hardly be expected to be behind such a heist when he was barely twenty… Or maybe… your dead body is behind it." Neal frowned deep in thought. "That would hold… I always wondered who trained Gordon. It could have been Reginald Anderson."

"James Highsmith," John corrected.

Neal went on. "Which would explain why we found the painting at his place. It was his share."

"What about the other paintings?" Peter asked.

His hunger overcoming his tastes, Neal took a donut and bit into it. He winced in disgust while munching.

"How can you eat this stuff? No wonder the police aren't brighter; your brains are drowned in grease," he commented.

Peter shot him a dark stare and Neal quickly moved on, "Although, in your case, the good cooking of your wife makes up for it."

Once again admiring Neal's talent for manipulation, John summed up the case.

"So, Highsmith gets an order and teams up with Taylor, his new pupil. They rob the museum but their patron disappears. They find themselves with unfenceable paintings and the FBI chasing them, but thanks to a mole they manage to vanish; never to be found again."

"Yes, that's about it. Although, maybe not Taylor himself. I'm finding it hard to believe that he committed such a heist and never bragged about it. We enjoy the fame from our best cases," Neal added with a guilty smile.

"The newspapers are going to love it," Peter mumbled. "I can already picture the headlines: _'25 years later the thieves keep mocking the FBI'_."

"Peter, you were right. Only a thief can find a thief," John said turning to Neal.

"Et tu?" Neal exclaimed.

John fought a smile. "I'm taking you to Anderson's apartment. I want you to have a look. I'm sure you'll see things differently."

"Good idea," Peter approved.

* * *

 _Day 5 – FBI, Peter Burke's office, 11:00 am_

Peter put down his notes for the meeting and turned to the window.

The team meeting had just ended and he felt like they hadn't made any progress. Neal had achieved more in one single evening than the whole FBI team in charge. And Peter was now faced with the fact that he had a bit too much information to reveal and no sources he could disclose.

He was rather satisfied his instinct had been right about the mole. But the question still remained. Where was he? What had happened to him? Could he still be active? Did he know the investigation was reopened? Was that mysterious informant going to resurface again and try to sabotage the investigation or had he disappeared too?

He had presented his theories, Neal's ones actually, in the meeting. He had insisted on the mole aspect. He might have hinted that they had serious leads about his identity. It had two advantages. The first was to boost the team who hated being betrayed by one of their own. The agents would do their best to find the traitor among them.

The second advantage was to scare the mole and maybe have him slip-up. Of course, this only worked if the mole was still in the FBI.

He couldn't help a smile thinking about Kramer's face. He had been quite surprised by the last leads and had warmly congratulated Peter and the team for their work. It wasn't his prerogative, but having a Washington top agent approve the work was good for morale.

He still didn't understand why Kramer had come to New York to join this investigation, especially to work with him when they had parted in less than friendly ways. They did say time cured all wrongs. And if they managed to close this case, the medals would rain down. Which was always nice. He should probably accept that Kramer had got over they mutual aversion and was trying to rebuild the team they had been in their younger years. Maybe he should forgive too. Of course, with Neal around, the circumstances didn't help.

He was about to tackle the reports he had to sign when his phone rang.

"John?"

* * *

 _Day 5 – Earlier, Hell's Kitchen, Reginald Anderson/James Highsmith's apartment_

John and Neal had been exploring Reginald Anderson's apartment for a while. After having made sure no one was staking out the place, John had discreetly gotten the ex-thief inside, ducking under the yellow tape.

Neal had given a wide berth to the blood stain on the floor then had started checking the room in detail. He stopped and looked hard at the empty safe.

"Nothing interesting in the safe," John informed him.

"Then why would you need a safe…" Neal mumbled. He ran his fingers inside checking for a trigger mechanism that would open a door, but it was just a plain safe.

The drawers and sides of furniture hadn't revealed anything either. It was starting to become more than a bit frustrating.

He went to the painting room, noting the opening in the closet.

"Did you find the secret door?" Neal asked.

"Once I realized there was footage missing from the place," John explained.

They were now in the room that would hopefully reveal something: Anderson's, aka Highsmith's, studio. Following the FBI's request, everything had been left as found, except for the Rembrandt painting.

Neal started exploring the room while John remained by the door, watching the young man move around. He went straight to some places to explore them with great care, almost as if he knew where to look. John's theory was proved when Neal slipped his hand under a shelf and came back with a box.

"You have a special training on where to hide stuff in painting studios?" John asked with a smile.

"Artists have often been persecuted in the past. Their vision of the world often rubbed people the wrong way; therefore they became masters of concealment." He put the box on the table. "Remind me to show you the hidden stuff in the Mona Lisa painting some day; you'll never look at a painting the same way again."

The box didn't reveal anything interesting. With a shrug, Neal started his search again. This time he checked the sculptures, one by one, shaking them, turning them. Nothing.

Had John been wrong? His instinct was screaming that there were secrets to be found here.

Yet, they had gone over most of the available space. Putting the last sculpture down, Neal checked the table. His gloved hand ran over the wood, trying to detect a flow that would mark a hiding. And again nothing.

The two sides were bare of anything. Neal watched John with a disgruntled look.

"I guess we were wrong," he said. "There is nothing in this place.

"Let's check the other side of the table," John offered while pulling on the workbench to remove it from the wall.

"Nothing and nothing," Neal grumbled softly.

He moved to the wall facing the table. He didn't like failure, but he had to admit it, Highsmith was brighter than him.

Back against the wall, he slipped down to the floor, watching John who was now striking the walls to check for a noise difference. His eyes fell on the legs of the workbench.

The wood was carved, which was surprising as the top was just a panel. More surprising, one of the legs had a slight color difference, as if the wood wasn't the original one.

He rose up quickly and started checking the leg. There was a clear mark between two parts.

"John, I think I found something," Neal said.

When John crouched by his side, he pushed on the mark. A small trap opened. Neal pulled it and a smile lit up his face: the leg was hollow. John answered with a smile of his own and slipped his fingers inside, retrieving an envelope.

He was about to open it, when John's phone buzzed. A text from Finch.

## Kramer - call me back, urgent ##

John placed a call first.

"Peter, could you meet us at Anderson's place soon?" he asked

"I could be there in twenty minutes, less if urgent." After all what good was a blue light if you didn't use it?

"We found an envelope very cleverly hidden," John explained. "I thought you would like to be there when we open it."

Neal was quivering in anticipation by his side, but John wanted Peter present.

"I need to make a call. Do not open the envelope Neal," John ordered. "I'll be right back."

Neal made a face, then turned to watch a painting so he wouldn't be tempted.

Shaking his head in amusement, John moved to the other room and touched his ear.

"I'm listening, Finch."

"I think we have a problem, Mr. Reese," Finch announced. "Agent Kramer is getting more and more curious."

"Finch, what's going on?"

"I just saw agent Kramer close by Mr. Caffrey's container."

"What? How?" John exclaimed, then moved further way. He didn't want Neal to hear this, and knowing the man he was probably paying attention, although admittedly more out of habit than real interest.

"I'm going over his phone. It seems you are not the only one to spy on your co-workers. He has a GPS app tracking agent Burke's phone. He probably noticed the agent going there too often."

"Did he find anything?"

"He noticed the container, but lucky for us, employees from the storage company came to work on the neighboring container."

John breathed in relief. "Is he still around?"

"No, he just left. But he will probably be back."

"Finch, we need to empty that thing. Can you send a truck and a couple of trustworthy men?"

The familiar click of the keyboard was his only answer.

"What does Kramer want?" he wondered out loud.

"It would seem he is keeping a close watch on Mr. Burke. He knows the agent has used unorthodox methods in the past. Kramer probably hopes to be around if Burke finds a conclusive lead. Being present would put him in the spot light."

"If we crack this case, the whole team will benefit from the success."

"Or else," Finch carried on, "he was less professional reasons, and he is not there to help solve the case."

"He would still be bearing a grudge…" John concluded.

"Quite possibly."

"I don't get it. Neal is supposed to be dead. I mean, it's not as if he could manage to have him transferred to his own service."

"Since he cannot benefit from Mr. Caffrey's expertise, he makes sure Burke goes down."

"Obviously, if he gets inside the container, Peter's career is over. And most likely his freedom. He would need to give quite complicated explanations…"

"A team with the truck should arrive in half an hour, Mr. Reese."

"You own a moving company too?" John teased, astounded once more by the speed at which Finch had answered his request.

"Access isn't as easy as it used to be, but I still know who to reach out to."

A moving company, and most probably quite a few containers of his own. After all, John mused, Finch already lived a hidden life well before Samaritan had them scurrying away.

"Mr. Reece, you won't need to go yourself. Miss Groves has offered to supervise the operation. She told me she needed some fresh air. Quite honestly, I think she is rather curious as to what is inside the container."

"She'll be disappointed. She won't find weapons," John mumbled.

* * *

 _Day 5 - Hell's Kitchen, Reginald Anderson's apartment, 12h00_

After ending his call with Finch, John went back to the painting room. Neal was holding the envelope.

"Neal," John barked.

Neal dropped it as if it had burned his fingers.

"I didn't open it, I swear!" he exclaimed stepping back.

John fought a grin and tried to keep a straight face. "You wouldn't want me to tie you up, right?"

"Someday, you'll have to explain to me where that love for tying people up comes from," Neal shot back.

The ghost of an amused smile graced John's lips.

Neal turned back to the workbench and started to rummage through the tools; he needed to keep his hands busy.

Fortunately Peter arrived before John had to put his threat into action. He gave the envelope to Peter, letting him open it.

Peter turned the envelope upside down over the table. A letter and a small key fell out.

Not bothering to ask, Neal took the letter, unfolded it and started reading.

 _'My name is James Highsmith._

 _History will only remember me as a thief, member of the English gang and head of a few select heists._

 _I consider myself an artist. My love for painting has very often led me to borrow some art. It was only the testimony of the admiration of a less talented artist._

 _That love has allowed me to live quite comfortably even after I abandoned my career_ _as a thief. Some may say_ _that I was even then_ _not exactly on an honest path, but life would be pretty dull without the rush of danger…_

 _This letter is both my will and the proof that my love for art surpasses everything. That is the sole reason that_ _has_ _led me to leave this letter._

 _Yet, I couldn't make things too easy. Congratulations to whoever found this document; I'm pretty sure he's had his own stuff to hide._

 _If you found the letter, you of course also found the Rembrandt painting. You know where it comes from, so I'm proud to inform you that you have finally found the perpetrator of the "heist of the century", as it's been known over the years. Don't bother looking for my accomplices. There were only two of us. My partner has been dead for several years now. If he deserves punishment, I believe it will be a higher authority that will decide upon his fate._

 _This theft, as_ _were_ _many others, was to order._ _Another_ _art lover_ _wanted a very specific selection of paintings._

 _Henri Krulwart gave the order but didn't_ _fulfil_ _his_ _side of the_ _contract. At the time, it_ _was_ _quite the setback. No payment despite an important investment, no way to fence the art. Knowing they were stored in crates, away from the admiration of men, has always been one of the biggest regrets of my life._

 _I am an artist. I love art. Paintings such as those cannot be kept away for eternity. I have decided to give them back._

 _A last riddle for the brilliant mind who found this document: the location of the paintings._

 _930 LWFSI XYWJJY GWTTPQDS SD 11211_

 _Not so easy? I have all confidence in your capabilities._

 _The end is near for me. I hope I will be remembered as an art lover_ _and_ _as an artist and that God's justice will forgive me for what human justice will never forget._

 _James Highsmith'_

The three men remained silent after reading the letter.

Neal's fingers danced over the paper as he read the text for himself this time around. Peter and John exchanged a glance. This letter was exactly the kind of thing that Neal could write some forty years in the future. If anyone could understand Highsmith, it was him.

For the moment, the thing occupying Neal's mind though was solving the encrypted text. John, also an encryption specialist, was already reviewing the different codes that could apply. Finding the key was always the problem. There were so many different systems…

Leaving the letter and key to Peter so he could add them to the file, John and Neal took a picture of the letter to work on the location. Peter was wondering how he was going to explain how he had gotten his hands on the document. He was more than happy for the progress, explaining it was going to be more complicated. Of course, it just made sense with Neal around. And to make things worse, John was no easier to explain within the legal framework. If he had to work with these two many more times, he wouldn't have to worry about his hair going grey, he was more likely to lose it all!

Peter and John's phones buzzed at the same time.

## Meet me in meeting room at 1:30 pm. Kramer ##

It came as a surprise. Glancing at his watch, John figured that they could grab a quick lunch before answering this intriguing summon.

Kramer was probably moving forward, John mused. Not knowing what he had in store, John decided not to talk about the container. No need to remind them about that danger over their heads.

* * *

 _Day 5 - FBI, meeting room, 1:30 pm_

When John and Peter pushed the meeting room door open Kramer was already waiting for them.

"Hi Philip. Why the summons?" Peter asked. "You made a breakthrough? I haven't…"

Kramer interrupted him dryly. "No, that's not what I want to talk to you about. I'm worried about another topic, something about you, Peter," Kramer explained.

"You lost me. I thought the investigation was our only concern. That's what you used to tell me back in the day, if I remember right," Peter answered. "And why ask detective Riley to be present if it is a personal subject?" he asked.

"I may be needing a witness," Kramer explained.

"A witness? What for?" Peter wondered, tensing slightly.

John listened in silence. He was sure now Kramer was going to mention the container.

"I'm still willing to give you some leniency, that's why I kept this meeting in close committee, with only one witness. Would you explain what is stored in the container you have in Brooklyn?" Kramer asked.

"What container?" Peter countered.

"Oh please, Peter. You know perfectly well what I am talking about, since you've visited that container at least twenty five times in the last few months." Kramer bent over hands on the table, in a well-known intimidation stance. "I am waiting for your answer."

Noting the tactic, Peter kept calm and even took the time to sit comfortably.

"And how would you know that Philip? Spying on me now? I would have thought the investigation kept you busy," Peter answer with a confidence John could only admire.

"Oh, I get it!" Peter exclaimed. "You think I'm the mole in the FBI, the one that helped the robbers back then?" Peter asked astounded. When he had launched the theory, he hadn't expected to have it backfire. It would have been funny apart from the fact that Kramer knew about the container. That could prove dangerous.

"It has crossed my mind seeing as you kept working on the case even after it was closed. I've been thinking about it since you told us your theory about the mole yesterday. The way you invested yourself in the investigation, that willingness to carry on working on the file." Kramer gave him a fake smile. "What if it was just a front? Or more precisely you trying to make sure all the loose ends were secure? Your frequent visits to that container have me wondering. What if the paintings have been there all the time? It could be that you were getting ready to have them moved. I mean, it was brilliant to suggest a mole so that no one would suspect you."

"You are so wrong, Philip," Peter said, quickly thinking how he could keep Kramer away from the place.

A visit to the container would mean the end of his career, of his time with Neal Jr and Elizabeth. He wouldn't go down for the robbery but there were enough incriminating things in there to send him to jail for some time. _Damn you Neal,_ he thought. _You're really reaching from beyond the fake_ _grave!_

"What's your game?" Peter asked. "And out of curiosity, how do you know about those alleged visits?"

"Tracking your phone GPS has proven quite interesting, Peter," Kramer answered proudly.

"This is new. Washington's director spying on the NY White Collar ASAC during a case related to the biggest heist in history. I do hope you have an authorization, Philip, or I'll file a formal complaint."

"Stop wasting my time!" Kramer interrupted him. "I know you are hiding something in there and it would save us time and money if you would willingly open it for us. After all, if as you say, you have nothing to hide and you only keep your grand-mother's old furniture in there, then we'll be all satisfied. I'll even apologize," Kramer added with a smug smile.

Peter was starting to run out of excuses. He couldn't understand Kramer's position. Did he still hold a grudge about Neal? But after all the CI was "dead"…

A voice interrupted his musing.

"Gentlemen, why don't we pay a visit to that container?" the third attendee to the meeting, who had been silent so far, asked. "It would seem the best course of action at this point."

"See Peter, detective Riley agrees with me," Kramer added.

Peter stared at John. How could he be so calm about this? He knew what the container contained. This felt like betrayal. He didn't know much about the man and so far had trusted him because of the past. What was his play? Peter felt a shiver go through his body. John wouldn't go so far as killing Kramer in cold blood? During their first "case" together there had been some weird disappearances…

He nodded stiffly. "Seeing as everybody seems to agree, let's go."

Kramer was out of the door so fast, eager to bring his colleague down, that he didn't hear John whispering to Peter, "Trust me, Peter."

* * *

 _Day 5 - Neal's container 2:30 pm_

Traffic had delayed them on the way to Brooklyn, but Peter was now facing his destiny. He had taken the key out and was about to show Kramer a full life of crime, Neal's life. How would he justify that? How could he explain he had found this place but had never deemed it useful to report it? How to explain to Elizabeth, Diana, Jones? He had been lying to them for months. He couldn't see any way out of this.

Pushing past him to get in in a rush, Kramer entered the container leaving the door wide open.

Peter didn't look, waiting for the sentence.

The bewildered look on Kramer's face would have been funny if the situation wasn't so tense.

John bit back a chuckle. Apparently Root hadn't been satisfied with just emptying the container; she had filled it with junk coming straight from the backyard of an elderly great-aunt.

Kramer's wrath bounced off the walls.

"What kind of joke is this? This stuff is worthless!"

He invaded Peter's personal space.

"Look at me, Peter, and tell me you have been coming here dozens of times only to watch stuff that belongs in a landfill!" he yelled, his face red.

Peter, evidently also surprised by the contents, didn't utter a word.

"Answer, Burke!" Kramer spat, almost touching the agent.

Much to John surprise, Peter managed to get all self-righteous before answering. His admiration for the agent increased another notch.

"Here's the proof that your allegations were wrong. A mole, capable of stealing such priceless work of art? Philip, how could you think that? Have you lost all confidence in me? You trained me, you know my professionalism," Peter answered very calmly, his voice even carrying a touch of wounded feelings.

"Right, as if I'm that gullible. Where's the camera? You saw me coming and had everything moved, right?" Kramer asked, still pissed off. "Yes, that's it, you left the office around eleven this morning," he said frowning.

"Stop, Philip, you're being ridiculous," Peter said. "Be logical, think about it. How could have I moved a full container in under two hours? You want to get back at me so bad you're not thinking straight."

Kramer grabbed Peter's shirt in a fist. "Spill it, Burke. Tell me what was in the container."

He felt a hand on his forearm.

"Let him go now before you do something you'll regret," John advised in a neutral voice.

Kramer measured his opponent but the look in the eyes told him he didn't have the upper hand. He let go of his former partner and left the container with a last threat. "This isn't over, Burke. You hear? I will get you!"

Peter allowed himself a moment to recover then, turned to John, who was as calm as ever.

"I guess I owe you some thanks."

"No problem," John answered, brushing it away, as if he hadn't done anything in particular.

"You just saved my career, my credibility and Neal's new life. I cannot just forget about it," Peter said. "How did you know Kramer was spying me? And how did you manage to take care of this? You have been with me or Neal the whole time. Are you some kind of magician?" he added with a light smile, amused now that the tension was over.

"No magic, for sure. Just an efficient moving team."

"How did you even know the place was compromised?"

Joh turned around and pointed to the camera. Peter paled, he had forgotten about it.

"It means Kramer can get to the recordings. We only postponed this. He will come back to me when he sees the crew…" Peter was starting to panic again.

"Peter, easy, breathe," John suggested with a hint of a smile. "You and Neal's secret are perfectly safe."

"You seem to always be a step ahead; not to mention having access to unlimited means. How do you manage that?" Peter asked.

"Peter, for your own sake, it is better that you don't know about some things. Your friend, or should I say ex-friend, is not going to drop this. If he manages to get you to take a lie detector test then it is better that you really don't know anything. I won't insult your intelligence by thinking you didn't understand I'm not exactly who I pretend to be. Let's say we are even; to each own his secrets."

"Huh, right, of course," Peter answered disconcerted.

"Detective" Riley was really something…

* * *

 _TBC…_


	8. Day 5 - part 2

_Day 5 - Apartment on corner of 3rd and 46th, 2:45 pm_

When they had parted ways, Neal went back to the flat on 46th. He had been studying the name of the patron for a few minutes now. Something in it bothered him. He couldn't understand why Highsmith had given the name freely without encrypting it.

And what if it was indeed encrypted? What if the mundane name was the encryption?

After working on the letters, he came up with a second name, "Arthur Winkler".

He entered the name with the key words "collection" and "art" in the computer John had brought him "on behalf of Finch". He was convinced Finch had probably placed a bug in the machine, but he didn't intend to use it for anything else. The advantage was that the laptop was far more powerful than any computer he had worked on before.

Google came up with a list of answers.

 _'Arthur Winkler makes a new donation to the Metropolitan Museum…' 'Arthur Winkler present for the opening of the new exhibition at the Guggenheim…' 'Arthur Winkler's generosity once more acclaimed…'_

So the generous donor was also a thief. After all, what better cover to case the museums for the art he wanted? He probably had access to highly restricted areas. All he needed then was to place his order.

From the art he had "generously" given to several museums, one could only wonder about his private collection. Neal couldn't begin to fathom what Winkler's private exhibition looked like. Probably like a dream come true…

Scrolling down the page, he opened another link.

 _'Arthur Winkler dies in a scuba diving accident.'_

The article related own the rich collector had died while he was scuba diving on the coasts of Belize… in 1990.

"Unbelievable," Neal whispered.

In his letter, Highsmith hadn't explained why their patron had disappeared.

When Neal had exposed his theory to John and Peter, he had been fully aware that he hadn't insisted enough on the fact that it was only an hypothesis. But the patron vanishing was the easiest way to explain why there had been no exchange after the theft, which was obvious from the information he had gathered. Whatever Peter might think, he hadn't lied. He had just omitted to point out that his explanation was only a theory, not hardcore facts. He couldn't be blamed that the agent had assumed they were facts.

Okay, so, he had manipulated his ex-boss, old habits were hard to break. He had needed a bit more time to come up with an answer. And anyway, in the end, he was right.

Now that he had the proof, all the pieces fitted nicely. Winkler hadn't been able to pay for the robbery he had ordered because he had died in the Caribbean Sea. A stupid decompression accident at that. And the thieves had found themselves with paintings they didn't know how to fence.

Quite pleased with his discovery, Neal reached out to Peter, then John, but neither answered. He sent a text to both of them hoping to hear from them soon.

He looked at the encryption once more; intent on trying to crack the code and finding the address. He re-read the letter again. He couldn't help feeling some sympathy for Highsmith. He had seen his paintings in the studio; the man had talent. He had many talents actually. The heist at the Stewart Gardner Museum was one of a kind. And in the end, the paintings were just picking up dust in some storage…

Neal scoffed. A container with stolen art, that sounded familiar... Come to think of it, he was Highsmith, some forty to fifty years in the future. He had never thought about death. Okay, he had, of course, as an abstract concept of something that happened to everyone, as a good way to dodge police forces getting too close for comfort, as a means to start a new life. And from time to time, when danger had hit a bit closer than usual. But Death, the final date that would end it all seemed too far away to really think about.

He perfectly understood Highsmith decision, feeling close to the artist. He found it hard to think that some art could be forever forgotten in some storage. When the day came, he might pick up his pen to write his own will.

That final date might actually arrive much sooner than expected, unless he managed to fix some mistakes.

Anyway, he needed Mozzie to find the address. He was the encryption expert. He also needed to call him for another reason.

He picked up his phone.

"Mozz, I need you to come with me on a visit."

* * *

 _Day 5 – Decommissioned subway station, 3:00 pm_

Finch had entered in his computer the encrypted address John had sent in the morning, then had launched several programs hoping one of them would help him find the clue. So far, nothing had turned up.

He heard footsteps behind him.

"Miss Groves," he said without turning around.

The young brunette remained behind him, watching the letters and figures.

"Humm, interesting."

"My thought a few hours ago. Now, I probably wouldn't be using the same word," Finch admitted.

Root cleared her throat. "Harold, I want to apologize for my attitude these past days. I was totally out of line and I am really sorry for it."

Finch turned around slowly to look at her. Root was always one for surprises. He hadn't expected this.

She handed him a parcel nervously. "I brought you a gift."

Finch straightened in surprise. "Huh… thank you."

"While I was helping to empty Caffrey's container, I realized death isn't always as final as we are led to believe. You know that better than anyone. Caffrey crafted his death as a masterpiece." She shut up, then proceed in a very low voice, "I'm not giving up hope."

She didn't add a word, but the meaning was clear. And Finch realized John had been right when he had hinted that Root might feel lonely. Root was the one that had been the most hurt by Shaw's disappearance.

Finch had finished removing the wrapping paper. It was a painting. A beautiful view on the Chrysler building. He watched the signature.

"You stole the work of a dead man?" The words came out in spite of himself.

"First of all, he is not dead," Root countered. "And I left him a more than generous payment for it. Probably overpaid considering the help we gave him by cleaning the place."

"Thank you. It is a very nice painting."

Finch put it carefully on the table, then turned to the screens. Root was watching the text.

"You found you a match for your brain?"

Finch shrugged lightly in agreement.

"That guy saw himself as an artist," the young woman reminded him as she sat by Finch and picked up a keyboard.

Soon only the hum of the machines could be heard in the forgotten subway station.

* * *

 _Day 5 – New York, in front of a bar, 4:00 pm_

Finding Kramer hadn't been difficult; John wasn't letting him out of his sight now.

He touched his ear.

"Finch, you're there?"

"Always, Mr. Reese," his guardian angel answered.

"From his reaction at the container, I am now fully convinced Kramer is somehow involved in the robbery of the Gardner Museum. Every lead points his way: coming to New York for the investigation, trying to discredit Burke. I'm thinking his aggressiveness and the way he is trying to take Peter down is a reaction to feeling cornered. He's searching for a way out," John explained.

"I agree, Mr. Reese. So what can I do for you?" Finch asked, not seeing where his employee was heading.

"I think we need to follow two leads. I know you have checked Kramer's past already, but try again. See if we missed something. I saw Neal's text with the name of the patron. See if you can find any relation between Arthur Winkler and agent Kramer."

"The search on Mr. Winkler is already on the way; I'll see what else I can find about agent Kramer," Finch answered before ending the call.

Kramer had just ordered a new drink; John looked at the encryption again. He had tried quite a few codes with no result so far. He was sure Neal was working on it as well, and of course Finch. One of them was bound to find something.

* * *

 _Day 5 - Burkes' house, 5:00 pm_

Mozzie rang the bell at the Burkes door. A voice yelled "coming" and soon Elizabeth was opening the door, the baby in her arms.

"Hello Mozzie. What a nice surprise!" she exclaimed with a smile. "How are you doing?"

Mozzie answered with a slightly nervous smile.

Neal had called him earlier to tell him he wanted to see Elizabeth. Peter hadn't told her anything about him and didn't seem to know how to broach the subject, so Neal had decided to show up and tell Elizabeth the truth. He was a bit worried about her reaction so he had asked Mozzie to come along as emissary.

El and Mozz shared a weird bond, quite surprising for two people who were so different. Yet the friendship was undeniable. Quite honestly Neal was slightly nervous on how the meeting was going to turn out. Mozzie and Peter were ready to forgive him for faking his death; Elizabeth might find it more difficult to be that lenient.

"I'm fine, thank you," Mozzie answered entering the hallway. He hesitated on how to proceed. There was no miracle solution, so he just went ahead. "I brought a guest."

Neal who was standing by the side, appeared on the door step with an uneasy smile on his lips.

"Hello."

Elizabeth paled and stepped back, obviously shocked by the unexpected visit. She swallowed hard then turned to Mozzie.

"Mozz, would you hold my son, please?"

"Of course. Come with uncle Mozzie, honey," he said reaching out.

Elizabeth approached and slapped Neal hard. He let out a pained yell and took his hand to his face.

"That hurt?" she asked anxiously.

Neal nodded.

"More than learning that a loved one is dead? More than seeing your husband wither away? More than seeing him hide his own tears to help you cope with your own grief?"

Neal winced. He had no answer for that. Elizabeth slapped him again, hard.

"I went to your funeral! I went on your headstone every month, taking my baby with me! A baby whose name is a testimony to a dead man!"

"I'm sorry…" Neal breathed in deeply. "Do you want me to leave?" he asked in a quavering voice.

"Yes, sure. Why not? After all, you are quite good at it, aren't you? Disappearing without leaving a trace, not caring about hurting people!"

"El…"

"No, you don't get to El me… You…" Elizabeth raised her hand to slap him again but just put it on Neal's chest and fell in tears against him. "You can't do that… It's way too painful."

Neal wrapped his arms around her, caressing her hair softly.

"I'm sorry El. I really didn't mean to hurt you…"

He let her sob against him, casting a glance at Mozzie whose eyes were misting too. He fully understood Elizabeth's pain, he had been in the very same situation a couple of days before. He couldn't help an amused smile when he saw the perfect imprint of Elizabeth's hand on Neal's face. His friend hadn't probably anticipated the physical assaults on his body. Now that he thought about it, he should remember to ask how Peter had reacted. At least, he hadn't shot him, although Neal clearly deserved it for having them live the worst fifteen months of their lives.

Neal let Elizabeth weep against his chest for a while, then still hugging her he led her towards the couch so she could sit. She untangled from his arms slowly and turned to the stairs.

"I'll be right back," she whispered, going up.

Neal watched her feeling guilty, and went to sit by Mozzie who had the baby on his knees.

"He is gorgeous. My god, those eyes…" he exclaimed amazed.

"His mommy's obviously," Mozzie agreed.

Baby Neal was watching his name giver with huge eyes. Neal tickled his foot, not daring to pick him up.

"You can hold him if you want," Elizabeth offered, her voice still choked. She had freshened up her face, but her eyes were still puffy.

Neal bent toward the baby, the little boy reached his arms out.

"Caffrey's charm at work," Mozzie teased.

Sitting on the knees of a perfect stranger didn't seem to baffle the baby who started exploring Neal's face with his hands.

"I'm a bit itchy," Neal apologized with a tender smile. "I didn't have time to shave."

"There's more grey in it," Elizabeth pointed out.

She was watching her baby boy, who now seemed fascinated by the hand of the elder.

"Why?" she asked softly.

Neal exhaled. He could have dodged the question, explain his beard had gotten greyer because he was getting older, but of course that wasn't the question, and even the master of deflection knew when to give a straight answer.

"It was the only way I could think of to be really free. Running away wouldn't work in the long run…"

"Because sooner or later, Peter would have found you," Elizabeth simply stated. Both knew this was the truth.

She remained silent then seemed to realize something. "You came back to New York but you hadn't planned on seeing us, right?"

Neal felt his throat clench. He nodded, unable to speak.

"Are you happy at least?"

"It's harder than I expected," he admitted. "I never had a family before, I didn't think it was something important. And as often, you realize the real value of things when they disappear."

 _Family_. In the beginning, the relationship between Peter and Neal was purely professional; as far as Neal was concerned it was mostly an easier way to run. Their bond had evolved far beyond anything he had anticipated. That Mozzie -Mozzie, who hated everything Peter represented- had kept in touch with the Burkes after of his "death" was the ultimate proof.

"Why are you here?"

Neal exchanged a glance with Mozzie. Really deja-vu again. He settled more comfortably on the couch. Elizabeth deserved the full version…

"I live in Paris…"

* * *

 _Day 5 - Burkes' house, 7:00 pm_

Peter entered his home still rattled by the weird afternoon. He knew Kramer held a grudge, but being that angry? As if he wanted him out of the way at any price. Without detective Riley's help, he would be behind bars right now. Kramer hadn't shown up at the afternoon briefing; that was worrisome. What was he plotting?

Lost in his thoughts, he had entered his house and hung his coat without paying attention. He entered the living-room.

"Hi El…" He froze when he saw the couch.

Neal and Elizabeth were sitting side by side. Mozzie was on the armchair.

Elizabeth shot him an icy stare, enough to freeze hell over and probably the sun too.

"Look honey, we have a guest," his wife said, her too sweet voice belied by her eyes.

"Peter swallowed, "Huh…"

"No more lies please. Don't bother looking for a reason why you had to hide this from me."

"I…"

"No. I'm the one doing the talking Peter. I can't even find the words to tell you how I feel. But we do have guests and I won't make a scene in front of them."

Peter winced. Maybe witnesses wouldn't be a bad idea…

Behind Elizabeth, Neal moved his finger in a circle, the trip around the world he had talked about earlier. At this rate, the whole universe wouldn't be enough.

Elizabeth tensed and without looking back said, "Neal, if you want to pass message to my husband behind my back, make sure there's no reflection on the other side of the room. You really shouldn't interfere."

Neal's face crumbled down and he hugged the baby. Elizabeth wouldn't hit him if he was holding Neal Jr.

Sitting in the armchair, Mozzie couldn't hide his amusement. He totally understood Elizabeth's wrath. He still was coping with Neal's treason. Friendship was one thing, marriage was a whole different affair. Peter had a long way in front of him to gain El's forgiveness. He could almost pity him, if he wasn't still mad at Peter for having kept it from him too.

The silence was thick as a wall. Elizabeth rose.

"I'll get drinks; we will be needing them."

She left the room without a glance toward Peter. In all their life, whatever the time or situation, El had never failed to give him at least a light welcome kiss. He watched her go into the kitchen, then turned to Neal shooting him a murderous stare.

Neal had the grace to blush, totally conscious of his part in this.

"Thank you very much," Peter shot dryly.

"I really thought it would make things easier," Neal explained, taking his hand to his cheek.

Watching him more closely, Peter noticed the red imprint on the face of his ex-CI.

"Did she slap you?" Peter couldn't help a laugh.

Neal nodded shrugged slightly. "I had totally underestimated the physical damage I would face by coming here," he grumbled. His jaw was still tender from Mozzie's punch, now his face…

Elizabeth came back with a bottle and glasses. "Neal, open up the bottle, after all it's one of yours. June gave it to me when she emptied your place."

Neal let his shoulders drop and closed his eyes. June… Although, she would probably be the one who would be the most understanding. She had loved a man that in many ways had been a lot like him; she had had even said so.

"June, who doesn't know about you either…" Peter whispered.

"Organizing such a con isn't an easy feat. You cannot do that alone. Who helped you, Neal?"

"You can achieve anything if you're ready to pay the price…"

"And by involving several people on each different aspect, no one can put the pieces back together."

Neal watched him with a grateful smile. "I had a great teacher."

"Flattery will get you nowhere Neal. I'm still mad," Mozzie answered.

Neal poured the wine in a tense silence. Little by little, the conversation started again, baby Neal offering a good topic as he was passed around.

The atmosphere became less tense, and Neal decided to talk about the case.

"Peter, I realize this is not exactly the right time, but you didn't answer my text about the name of the patron. I thought you wanted to solve this case."

"Something really weird happened this afternoon," Peter explained. "You remember Kramer sent both John and I a text to meet him at the FBI?"

"Yes, what happened?" Neal asked frowning.

"In a few words, he accused me of being the mole who helped the thieves, and that I was hiding the painting in a container… your container," Peter explained.

"Oh God," Neal whispered, his face going white. "What happened? I mean, you're here, not in jail. So I'm guessing you found a way to prove it wasn't yours. I know the paintings from the Gardner museum aren't there, but the art stored there isn't exactly over the counter stuff…"

"Easy Neal, breathe", Peter calmed him down. He smiled. "John had to use the same words on me a few hours ago. Kramer wanted him as a witness when he opened the container."

"He didn't…"

Peter interrupted him.

"Your mystery friend had taken care of everything. The container was empty. We're clearly indebted this time."

As he thought about it, Neal wasn't really surprised. John really was his guardian angel. Each time that they had met, he had gotten him out of the worse situations. How was he going to ever thank him?

Peter carried on.

"After calming down, I went back to the office hoping to meet Kramer. I mean he has been spying me by monitoring the GPS of my phone. I am fully entitled to sue him."

"And?" Elizabeth asked, worried of the situation that Neal had got her husband embroiled in.

"He never showed up. I checked, he hasn't left New York. Quite honestly, I'm a bit worried; kind of waiting for the second shoe to drop," he explained in a dark voice.

"Neal, it might be good idea to not be seen round our home. If Kramer finds out you are alive, it will be the end. I don't think detective Riley will be able to do anything to save us."

"Yes, of course. You are right. I can't put Elizabeth and Neal in danger." He started rising from the couch. "I'm leaving."

"Wait, I didn't mean this minute. Finish your drink at least," Peter stopped him. "And congratulations for finding the original customer. The team is looking for any information they can find. Have you decrypted the address?"

"I only had a quick look," Neal admitted. "I was hoping to work on it this evening. And ask Mozzie for some help." He cast a look at his friend. "You are the specialist after all."

"Can I ask something?" Mozzie asked. He had been unusually silent so far.

Peter and Neal turned to him in surprise. He was usually more forthcoming.

"You're probably going to say I'm paranoid."

"No way."

"Never."

"Certainly not." The three adults spoke at the same time.

"Ah ah," Mozzie retorted. "Laugh all you want. Still, my theory covers all the answers."

"And would you care to share that theory with us?" Neal asked patiently.

"Kramer!"

He didn't need to elaborate. Everyone had understood what he meant.

"No," Peter answered almost reflexively.

Neal tilted his head slowly in assent.

"No," Peter repeated more slowly.

The depth of the accusation was staggering, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized Mozzie could be right. He did fit all the clues raised by Neal pointing to a mole inside the police force.

"Philip…" Peter whispered once last time, overwhelmed by the revelation.

* * *

Elizabeth had opened a second bottle. Neal was still holding the baby in his arm, wanting to enjoy him as much as possible. After Mozzie's bomb, the conversation had been lively and Neal's departure delayed.

They were now talking more calmly, although there still was a lingering tension between Peter and Elizabeth.

The front door opened suddenly.

Pointing his gun, Kramer moved in and stopped short when he saw Neal. The surprise on his face was priceless.

"What a lovely family," Kramer exclaimed with a fake smile. "Quite the picture postcard… The thief and his side-kick visiting the enforcement officer, his wife and baby." He kept his eyes on Neal. "For a dead man, you look rather good."

His hand clenched his gun more tightly.

"You are full of surprises Peter, aren't you? I wanted to see you in private to ask you what you did with the contents of the container, but I guess I have all the answers I need. I'll admit I didn't see this one coming."

Still obviously taken aback, Kramer had to fight for words.

"Dear God, your face that day… Neal came to the court and you signaled him to leave so I wouldn't have him!" he exclaimed pointing his weapon toward the agent.

"Helping him disappear that first time wasn't enough. You had to organize his death! And you would have me believe you weren't involved in the museum robbery? Peter, you just signed your confession."

Peter kept still. There were several people in the room, a stray bullet could have dramatic consequences. He truly hoped Kramer would calm down without committing an irreparable act. He was an FBI agent, his training and years of service should stop him before he pulled the trigger. If he managed to reason him.

"Philip, I'll tell you again: my only link with the Stewart Gardner museum heist is having worked on the investigation with you. Why do you keep trying to put that on me? I owe you everything. You were my mentor, the one who taught me everything I know. You are still the best agent in Washington, the one everybody turns to…"

"It's his fault," Kramer interrupted pointing his gun to Neal.

The ex-CI froze. He hated guns. Always had. And having one pointed at him bordered on phobia. Two gunshots in the past years had shown his fear was correct; being shot hurt like hell and it left nasty scars.

In the oppressive silence, a gunshot pierced the room. Kramer's weapon flew from his hand. Holding his injured fingers, Kramer tried to run. A left hook sent him to the ground. Peter had him in cuffs in one second.

John entered the room silently, still holding his gun.

"Sorry I let myself in. You seemed kind of busy…"

Peter sighed in relief and Mozzie let himself fall on the closest chair.

"You have a way with friends, Neal. Maybe I should consider invoicing you for my help…" he teased.

Neal swallowed hard, then helped Elizabeth sit down. Baby Neal was screaming in terror and his mummy's face was ashen.

Half an hour later, the Burkes' house was filled with FBI agents; an EMT was taking care of the Washington agent's hand. Peter still didn't fully understand what had really happened. He talked to the agents taking the prisoner to the FBI.

"Gentlemen, place him in custody. I'll interrogate him myself tomorrow. Let him think about what he did. I need to take care of my family first."

* * *

 _Day 5 – Decommissioned subway station, later in the evening_

After the incident at the Burkes' house, John had gone back to their headquarters to work with Finch on the encrypted address, and discuss the progress of their search on Kramer and Winkler.

Both were irritated at being played by the code.

"Mr. Reese, I think we're on the wrong track," Finch said, in the heavy silence.

"You're right as usual," John answered. "It's not Navajo either."

He sighed and closed his eyes, centering himself.

"I think we're being too professional about this. Highsmith was an artist, not an encryption specialist. We have been treating this code as a mastermind piece. What if it is something much simpler? I believe you can find internet sites to encrypt stuff."

Finch's finger flew over the keyboard.

He scoffed after a few minutes. "You are right. We are being too smart about this. Let's forget about the figures and just concentrate on the letters. We'll assume 930 is a number in the street, 11211 could well be a postal code, indicating somewhere in Brooklyn. Which makes sense. Let's try the internet scramblers on the remaining letters."

It took only a moment to the computer to come up with an answer.

"Far too complex indeed. It's the Olympic Games code. I can't believe I didn't think about starting with those." Finch shook his head in disappointment.

"Well, you can't be blamed for using your brain Finch," John answered with a light smile.

"The storage is in 930 Grand Street, Brooklyn."

"Oh that tops it all!" John exclaimed.

"Why's that, Mr. Reese?"

"That address. It's where Neal's container is located," John explained. "It really is a small world."

One hour later, Finch's computer biped, indicating it had finished another search.

"We may finally be moving on regarding agent Kramer, Mr. Reese," Finch said as he reviewed the data quickly.

"What did you find?"

"I entered the FBI server to get agent Kramer's full file," Finch started. "Good scores, well noted by his supervisors, a fast progression up the ladder. Agent Kramer has always been considered an excellent agent," Finch summarized the information he was reading.

"Finch, what about that second file?" John asked in surprise. "In most government agencies, agents only have one personal file."

Finch opened the file; the pages they saw left them speechless.

There was a birth certificate, documents about the placement in a family, and an official document indicating agent Kramer had asked to change his last name when he was twenty.

Kramer's birth name was actually Philip Glass. His biological mother had died when he was barely seven; he then had been placed in a family, Jack and Margaret Kramer. His father didn't seem to be part of the picture.

Finch checked the birth certificate to check the father's name: Mark Glass.

Entering the name into the FBI database, Finch came up with a huge file to download.

* * *

 _TBC…_


	9. Day 6

_Day 6 – FBI, Peter Burke's office, 8:00 am_

Peter had barely sat down when his phone rang.

"Good morning Peter, this is detective Riley. How are your wife and son doing?"

"Good Morning. Fine, they're fine. The night was tense, but everybody is doing better," Peter answer, surprised by the question.

"I have some information for you," John carried on.

Peter picked up a pen, ready to write down the detective's latest findings.

"There should be an envelope on your desk," John said.

Peter watched at the letters and documents piled on his work table and noticed a smaller than average envelope. He opened it quickly.

John went on.

"You will find the address of the storage of the paintings, unless of course Mr. Highsmith prepared another surprise. You will find the number of the compartment on the key that opens it" John stated calmly.

"You cracked the code?" Peter exclaimed. "I… huh... wow. Well done, and thanks," he stammered.

"That was the first part," John answered as if it wasn't such a big deal. "The other is related to agent Kramer."

"What did you find out?" Peter asked, very interested.

"Since this wasn't really part of the investigation, I'll only point to the leads that you need to follow."

"I'm all ears," Peter said, not caring that John had actually investigated a member of the FBI.

"You should have a look at the complete personal file of agent Kramer," John suggested.

Peter watched the pile of documents on his desks, looking for a file in particular.

"I already have it. I wanted to read it before I interrogated Kramer this morning."

"Perfect," John approved. "I hope you also got the addendum file that's attached to his main personnel one. You should find a birth certificate with Kramer's father name. Follow up with that and the related file at the FBI. It's quite an interesting read."

"How can you get this kind of privileged information?" Peter didn't know what to think of it. The NYPD wasn't supposed to get access to the FBI database. Then again "detective" Riley wasn't really NYPD, which meant his sources were even shadier. He didn't know which alternative was worse.

"You shouldn't ask questions you don't really want answered," John suggested. "Maybe you can use this information during your interrogation of agent Kramer; we are still looking for a proof of his involvement with the thieves or the patron. Good luck."

So Mozzie wasn't the only one who had assumed Kramer was involved in the original heist. They hadn't talked about that after John's intervention at his home the night before, so obviously he had reached that conclusion himself. Once again he was amazed at John's incredible efficiency. He had probably had a long night.

He called agent Markle to ask him to contact the Stewart Gardner Museum and tell their director that they had -hopefully- found the art. Peter wanted him to be there to supervise the opening and take all necessary precautions to ensure the art wouldn't be damaged.

He still found it difficult to believe that 25 years later, they had finally found the paintings. He couldn't wait to go to the storage and see by himself that the address detective Riley had given him was the real location. He couldn't allow himself to be too happy yet.

He picked up the file belonging to agent Kramer.

* * *

 _Day 6 – FBI interrogation room, 11:00 am_

Peter exhaled deeply and opened the door to the interrogation room, ready to face his mentor. To say he looked forward to this meeting would be a wild exaggeration.

"About time somebody showed up," Kramer spat immediately. "This situation is totally unacceptable. I will file a formal complaint. When can I leave?"

"Philip, you're hardly in a position to make any demands," Peter stated calmly. "Have you forgotten what happened last night? Holding my wife, baby and myself at gun point after accusing me of sabotaging a federal investigation for the past 25 years? You can consider yourself lucky we are holding you here, not in a state prison!"

"I'm sorry. I let my frustration get the best of me and went a bit overboard. I apologize, okay?" Philip answered in a condescending tone.

"Enough Philip. I don't understand your play, but this is not the way," Peter answered dryly.

"I won't answer any of your questions, Peter. I am still convinced you helped the thieves during the investigation in 1990. I want to talk to the Director."

Peter had to admit that Kramer's nerve was one of a kind.

"I'm glad you mentioned him. I talked at length to Director Pollock. He wasn't that happy to be called in the middle of the night in the beginning, but he gave me full powers to conduct this investigation. Stop thinking you are still calling the shots. You'd better start thinking on how you are going to justify what you did, if you can. Hacking my GPS data and threatening my family with a gun are enough to mean the end of your career at the FBI."

Kramer rose slightly, bending over the table in a menacing stance.

"You're lying Peter," he spat. "You haven't talked to the Director, I…"

"Sit down," Peter enunciated in an even voice. "You know this interrogation is recorded. You don't want more charges added to the mix."

Kramer sat back, jaw tense. Peter noticed that he was losing some of his composure; he had to strike fast and hard.

"I found an interesting information in your file," Peter said. "Your real name, I mean your birth name, is Philip Glass."

"Yeah, so what? I don't see how that has anything to do with this case," Kramer answered, slightly rattled as if unsure of where this was leading.

"I'm surprised you never mentioned it."

"Why mention a person who never was part of my life and who's name I didn't want to carry? My father was never around."

"Actually, your father was quite busy on his own. His FBI file is quite the interesting read," Peter carried on, using Riley's own words.

Kramer remained silent, but the worried look that went through his eyes convinced Peter he had touched a sensitive spot.

"Come on, don't tell me you didn't know about your father's activities. Neal Caffrey's is a true choir boy compared to him."

"I have nothing to say about that subject," Kramer stated.

"Charged with no less than ten major thefts. Finally sent to prison in 1988; got fifteen years because of a theft with violence," Peter summarized. "I guess you see now why I'm intrigued by your choice of career. Quite surprising that you would choose a service that could allow you to help your father or his accomplices…"

"You're so off the track, Peter," Kramer answered with a laugh. "I must have seen my father ten times in my whole life. Why would I help him or his friends? That man was a stranger and a thief."

"But he still was your biological father and the man your mother loved. Blood can be a pretty strong motivator. Then again, maybe it was just about the money."

A knock on the door interrupted the conversation. Kramer didn't bother to hide his relief. Peter was getting a bit too close to the truth for comfort.

Peter left the room with a scowl.

"I do hope you have a good reason for this interruption, agent Markle," he groused.

"The team has finished going over the file of Mark Glass. We have all the proof we need. The man in that room has indeed betrayed the FBI," the agent answered.

"Show me it," Peter said curious.

The agent handed him the file. Peter scanned the document quickly, then entered the room without a word.

"So, you have come back to your senses? Are we going to reach a civilized arrangement?" Kramer immediately attacked.

"Shut up!" Peter ordered. That Kramer kept with this line of defense didn't make sense anymore. What was he hoping to gain? This was getting ridiculous.

"I have enough evidence here to charge you. On top of the charges mentioned at the beginning of this meeting, we are adding interference with a federal investigation, accessory to theft and concealment. With a very good lawyer, you are facing at least ten years behind bars."

"Peter, you are bluffing. You have no proof to support those allegations."

"You still want to play it that way? All right, then."

Peter started pulling out papers from his file and putting them in front of Kramer.

"This is a very interesting transcriptions of your father's confession during his last arrest, mentioning a name we have come across in this case: Arthur Winkler, the man who ordered the heist of the Stewart Gardner Museum."

Kramer shrugged, seemingly unconcerned.

"A statement from your bank account in the Bahamas, where we can see four deposits before and after the theft."

"And finally, the proof that those deposits were made by the 'Friends of the Arts Foundation', which happens to be run by Arthur Winkler's descendants. We have everything we need. Actually the only thing I'm missing is the reason why. Why did you do it Philip?"

As the documents piled on the table, Kramer's face had lost its haughtiness. He kept his eyes downcast. Peter and his team had managed to put together the whole puzzle, or most of it anyway.

"Philip, if you want any chance at some leniency, you better start explaining why."

Kramer raised his eyes from the table to look at the agent. It had gone too far, they had him. All he could hope now for was a special treatment. Even a white collar prison wasn't a nice place to live for a former FBI agent.

"Believe it or not, I didn't know about my father's activities until very late in my life. One day a couple of men approached me, took me to the Pacific Union Club. That day I met for the first and only time Arthur Winkler. He told me about my father's activities, apparently he had been quite the thief back in the day. Then he told me how my father had double crossed him and how he wanted payback for that. First part had been by having my father killed in prison, but not before he learned my father had a son who worked for the FBI. I guess, although he had abandoned us, my father kept track of me. I didn't have my father's special skills, but Winkler was very interested by someone with access to the FBI's information. Of course, I turned down his offer. They didn't take that well. They stalked me for weeks, then threatened my wife. I caved in when they offered me a million dollars to cover the evidence of a theft if the investigation got too close to them. I actually thought it was a good deal. After all, what were the chances that I would be assigned to the relevant case?"

"Why didn't you come forward? You should have talked to our boss. You just accepted a bribe, Philip. I thought you were better than that. That is not the astounding teacher I remember," Peter said.

"Enough with the moral lesson, Mr. Perfect," Kramer spat. "You've got at least as many skeletons in your closet as I do!" He shot Peter a dark stare. "That money was just a way to get me a decent retirement; our salaries aren't up to pare with the danger we face daily."

"Except, it didn't turn out as expected," Peter commented hoping to get the rest of the story.

"It did in the beginning. I managed to derail the investigation, despite your unbelievable involvement. I had to come back at night a couple of times to destroy some of your leads," Kramer said, with almost a proud smile. "You were already a great agent. I got my million dollars, but then Winkler died in that scuba diving accident. I thought I had been quite lucky. I had a nice bank account for my older days and the only person that could incriminate me was dead. It did seem like the perfect ending and I thought deserved it as a retribution for my father abandoning us."

"You've lived in peace with that all those years?" Peter asked, wondering how that could be possible. He had spent more than his share of sleepless nights for stuff Neal had pulled, none of which had been so incriminating.

"Remorse is for the weak. I didn't have much of a choice in the beginning, but once I made up my mind I had no reasons for regrets. I thought I was pretty safe; I haven't touched a single cent of that money to ensure my safety," Kramer concluded.

"Then why did you come to New York? If you hadn't been involved in the case, we'd never have made the connection. You betrayed yourself."

"I wanted to make sure you wouldn't solve the case. Managing to fool the great Peter Burke was my way of getting back at you for Neal. I wanted him in Washington; you went as far as helping him run to keep him for yourself! I never talked about it again, but that didn't mean I forgot." Kramer looked Peter straight in the eyes. "You have your mole, but the paintings are still unaccounted for. That must be a hard pill to swallow hey? You must feel pretty low. And you cannot even tell anyone who your source is… Someday, Peter, you will find yourself in exactly my place, and it will all make sense."

"Enough," Peter interrupted. "If you think throwing wild accusations will do your case any good you are wrong. Since I am one of your victims, another agent will be taking your testimony." Peter went to the door; he opened it and turned around. "I sincerely hope it was worth it while it lasted, Philip. Good bye."

Once in the corridor, Peter let himself fall back against the wall and closed his eyes. Philip wasn't entirely wrong. Their paths were different, but keeping that kind of secrets was a heavy load to shoulder. His ex-mentor had helped conceal half a billion worth of paintings. Neal's container content wasn't that valuable, but in Peter's case he was also hiding that he knew a felon was still at large…

* * *

 _Day 6 - Apartment on corner of 3rd and 46th, 1:00 pm_

"And to think you almost had a fit because we were having donuts… Taking marshmallow fluff back to Paris borders on provocation," John commented, leisurely leaning against the door frame.

"You should remember to tell the Police apparently anyone can enter this place. Security isn't as tough as they might think," Neal answered turning around, a smile on his lips.

"You're leaving?"

It was more of a rhetorical question; Neal's duffel bag was on the bed almost full; the shelves had been cleared of any personal item.

"I shouldn't have come in the first place."

"Peter owes you big time. Your discoveries have been the turning point of the investigation."

"I'm sure he probably would have found out in the end, even without me."

Neal left the room to join John in the living room.

"Meeting him hadn't been part of the original plan." He smiled in amusement. "If you hadn't caught me, I would have just sent him the information anonymously."

John sat down on the couch. "Regrets?"

"No!" Neal immediately answered. He sighed. "It was great working with him again. Reminded me of all our years together."

Neal remained silent a few moments. "A few days ago back in Paris, I was thinking I had idealized the time I had spent working for the FBI. Probably because it beat being in jail. But there's more than just that. He…" He shrugged, trying to find the proper words.

"… saved you from yourself," John suggested in a low voice.

Neal opened his mouth to open and chuckled slightly. "Why do I feel that sentence wasn't only for me?"

John raised a corner of a lip in a smile. "Because you are smart?"

"I don't remember you telling me how you and Finch met." He watched John's impassive face. "You've got to admit your partnership is quite surprising. The secret ex-agent/spy and the computer genius allied in a mysterious battle to help strangers."

Neal closed his eyes for a brief second and carried on. "'A reliable source has informed me that you were in danger. My only purpose is to protect you.' That's what you told me on our first meeting."

"Impressive memory," John quipped.

"Not as good as Mozzie's, but you don't get to have a total stranger follow you all day to tell you that you are in danger every day."

"So that makes me, how did you put it again 'ex-agent/spy'?"

"No, that would be your methods," Neal laughed. "And your love for black hoods and zip ties."

"If I remember correctly you got rid of the cuffs I put on you in less than two seconds," John argued.

"Your face that day!" Neal laughed out loud.

John couldn't help a smile. Even if they hadn't met again, Neal Caffrey was one of those numbers he would have remembered for a long time.

"Dear, that sounds so long ago." Neal sighed. "Although, you haven't changed one bit. Still a master at deflection. And to think that Peter says I'm a champion, you're way out of my league."

"The stakes are different. You're a master at deflection by game, to catch your mark. In my case, I'm often dealing with cases of life and death," John answered, his face grave.

"I'm already dead, John" Neal specified.

"And since it seems to suit you perfectly, let's not disrupt that fragile equilibrium."

"It's that big?" Neal asked in a subdued voice.

"You have no idea," John answered in the same tone.

He put his hand in his pocket.

"By the way, I have something belonging to you." He handed him an envelope. "The key and address of the place we took your stuff to."

"How do you manage to always be a step forward?" Neal frowned. "I'd hate playing chess with you. You must be scary."

"I prefer Xiangpi."

"And you still wonder how I know you've been a spy before? Who else knows about Chinese checkers?" He shook his head in amusement. "As for the key, that container doesn't belong to me anymore. I left it for Peter."

"There's fortune worth of art in there!"

"I have enough means to lead a decent life. And my painting are selling rather well in Paris," he added. "Give the key to Peter; he'll know what to do with it."

"You've made your decision, you're vanishing again."

"For good this time. Peter and Elizabeth have their baby and their life. Mozzie is a lone wolf. I don't belong here anymore… You always think that you can't get over the death of your loved ones, but people have been dying since the dawn of humanity and it hasn't stopped the world from moving on."

"Take care of yourself."

"Stay out of trouble. Yes, I will try, I promise. I'm not sure how reliable your source is in Paris," he joked.

"Assuming it will ever be able to tell us again," John mumbled in a surprising moment of weakness.

"That complicated situation you told me about?"

John nodded.

"My flat isn't all that big, but if you ever come to Paris, I'll be glad to put you up."

"You're not saying good bye to Peter?" John asked suddenly suspicious.

Neal shook his head, his eyes misting all of a sudden. "No, it would be far too hard."

John winced slightly in sympathy. Being dead wasn't always easy, especially when you were alive.

He rose and extended his hand. "Good luck."

Neal shook his hand warmly. "Same to you."

* * *

 _Day 6 – 930 Grand Street, Brooklyn, 4:00 pm_

The curator of the Stewart Gardner Museum at his side, Peter was in front of the storage container that had belonged to James Highsmith. He turned to the man just arrived from Boston and gave him the key.

"If you'll do the honors."

With shaking hands, the curator opened the door. A wave of relief went through the bodies of those present as the right sized crates were revealed. Maybe Highsmith had finally ended his life with a last good action.

One hour later, all the crates were opened and the art revealed. Vermeer 'Concert', the second Rembrandt, 'a lady and gentleman in black', the Degas, Manet's 'Chez Tortoni', all the drawings. The Shang vase and the bronze eagle were also present. Highsmith hadn't lied. All the stolen art was there, perfectly preserved.

Overwhelmed by joy, the curator rushed to Peter to hug him. Peter softly slapped his back in understanding.

He was actually a bit surprised at not being more elated. He had just closed a 25 years old case. Congratulations were going to rain down from Washington, with luck a nice commendation too. Still he was finding it quite hard to realize the magnitude of the success.

A truck rolled in. All the art was going to be moved to a secured safe before being shipped back to Boston.

Peter went back to his car. His work here was done. The team would supervise the transfer. He was glad for solving the case but was still rattled by all the revelations.

"Well done, agent Burke. Another major achievement of the NYC White Collar," a voice said out of nowhere.

"You never announce yourself, detective Riley?" Peter asked, bothered that he had jumped in surprise.

"Not if I can help it," John answered coming out of the shadows of a container where he had been waiting for Peter to leave his colleagues. "I wanted to congratulate you one last time before parting ways. It was a pleasure working with you. Neal has always sung your praises and rightfully so."

"Thank you, detective Riley. But don't underestimate your part in this. If you are ever looking for a career move, I'd be happy to work with you."

"Thank you, but you know that's hardly possible. My past would probably be far more dangerous for you than Neal's. I don't think you need that kind of baggage."

"You're right. I do have my fair share with Neal," Peter answered in an amused tone.

"Actually I came to give you something," John explained sliding his hand in his pocket. "Here is the key and address of the storage where we took Neal's stuff. I'll let you decide what you want to do with it."

"Quite the poisoned gift," Peter answered, reaching his hand nonetheless. "You won't always be around to help us."

"Most probably. But I don't see who else I could give that key to."

"Maybe I should just throw it all in the river," Peter said in a dejected tone.

"Indeed, or give it all to Mozzie," John suggested.

"I'm not going to make a decision today," Peter concluded putting the paper and key in his pocket. "Thanks again for your help." As he moved on his way to his car once again, he turned back. "You think we will meet again?"

"Who knows? After all, New York is only an island," John said with a mysterious smile before turning around.

Shaking his head, Peter wondered, not for the first time, how that mysterious stranger had come to enter Neal's life.

* * *

 _TBC_


	10. Epilogue

Time to wrap up things.

Thank you for following us on this new adventure. Your comments have been truly appreciated. We hope to meet you again in a future story.

A special thanks to all the "guests" that I cannot thank personaly.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

 _Day 6 - Burkes' house, 8:00 pm_

Peter turned the engine of his car off. He had finished the preliminary reports, Kramer was behind bars. He was exhausted but happy this case was finally over.

Kramer… He still found it hard to believe. He had lost his confidence in his former mentor a long time ago, but that had been due to his conduct regarding Neal. He would have never thought he was implicated in the theft from the beginning. No surprise then that the case had never been solved. Must have been quite a thrill conducting the investigation while you knew exactly who was behind it.

Sure, some remarks had bothered him, but he had made sure his personal feelings didn't interfere with the investigation. He hated Kramer for personal reasons; he couldn't allow them to take precedence over the job. He should have followed his instinct. Elizabeth would have probably confirmed it.

He shivered remembering the scene from the previous night. John had made it there just in time. Always there at the right time. Who was exactly detective Riley? Thanks to him, his family was safe and sound. A new shiver shook his body as he remembered Elizabeth's frantic face, her arms reaching out for Neal. Neal Jr.

He had never thought he would need to differentiate them someday. The idea was Elizabeth's. The day the ultrasound had revealed she was expecting a baby boy, she had asked him, in an unusually shy voice, if he would be okay to name him Neal. Peter hadn't been able to hold back his tears and Elizabeth had immediately back-pedalled.

"But it was just an idea. He could have your father's name," she had said swiftly.

Unable to talk, his throat choking, he had kissed her.

"I hope he'll have your eyes," he had whispered watching her, his eyes full of love.

"And your sense of honesty…"

"Certainly hope so. I'd hate to have to throw him in jail," he had answered with an amused smile.

Elizabeth had let escape a surprised scream when the baby had kicked. "I think he doesn't like being teased. A lot like his uncle already."

Peter had placed his hand over his wife belly to feel the little kicks. And baby Neal was born with his mother's blue eyes.

Peter looked toward the house. The lights were on in the living room. Elizabeth was waiting for him. Mozzie was most probably around too; he really enjoyed spending time with the baby. And Peter was determined to do just the same. He had left a message to his secretary informing her that he wouldn't go to the office the following day. He had just solved a major case; he deserved a day off.

He left his car and entered his home in silence.

He hung his coat in the hall and saw Neal's hat hanging there. He smiled in happiness. He hadn't expected Neal to come back so soon.

He entered the living area. Elizabeth was sitting on the couch, holding Neal Jr. Baby Neal was holding the teddy bear with the blue tie his "godfather" had gifted him. Sweeping the room with his eyes, Peter saw that Elizabeth was alone. As he watched her more closely, he could see her eyes were slightly red, as if she had been crying not long ago.

He felt a cold dread engulf him.

Neal wasn't there.

The hat was just a message. A last farewell…

Swallowing the sob he could feel rising up, Peter went to sit by his son, putting his hand on the teddy bear to play with him.

After a chapter that would sound totally surreal in a few days, their lives would go back to normal. The shadow of his former CI would float forever above them, but more as a ghost. No one would ever see him again.

"Did I ever tell you how I met your godfather for the very first time?" he asked his son. "I was in front of the bank…"

* * *

THE END


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